3 Stiffs and a Goth Walk to A Party

By: Josh Embry

Us three stiffs stood in the door jam of her kitchen with our hands in our pockets, silent, as we watched the timer on the oven hit zero.

The goth-crazed member of our quartet, Karis, pulled out a steaming, ripe-red chord of rope. She slammed the tray holding the bundle of rope on the table as we three stiffs sauntered over, feet in perfect unison, like we were one and the same.

We had never been present at a rope cooking before, but the practice was a monthly endeavor for our our frizzled, black demon hair-colored friend.

We leaned over the steaming aluminum tray, and took in the smell. It smelled like, well, burnt rope.

One of my fellow stiffs, Carter, who once sported a cool mohawk that famously fell out after his cancer diagnosis as a child, reached his hand into the tray and yipped before drawing it back.

“Was that hot?” I asked.

“Yeah, a little bit,” he said, sucking his burned finger.

Karis cackled and said, “You dumbass! Why would you do that? That was cooking at five hundred degrees, you know.”

Carter sighed and shook his head.

“Yeah, I know, I know.”

Ever since his mohawk fell out the poor boy hasn’t been the same since. His job making paninis for the homeless shelter wears him the plum out. He’s essentially a seven year old working ninety hours a week in a late 19th…