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|A while back I was going through some papers destined for the shredder and came across a pink sheet of paper. It was a discharge form from a New Orleans hospital emergency room. Memories came flooding back--memories of seizures, anal sex, and policemen.|
|Back in the fall of 2001, some friends of mine started talking about going to Mardi Gras. I was then, as I am now, completely introverted and not necessarily into the whole thousands-of-drunk-people-jammed-onto-Bourbon-street thing. Over time though, they wore me down and convinced me of the fact that Mardi Gras was something which everyone should experience at least once. We then turned to finding a place to stay during the festivities.|
A popular link-posting website was planning what we will randomly call a "Mardi Gras Fork Fest". They were getting a nice group rate on a good hotel very close to the french quarter, so we joined up and signed up quicker than you could say greedy opportunist bastards. Since there were four of us, we claimed each other as roommates and got a room all to ourselves. At that point we had a place to stay for two nights worth of Mardi Gras. It was decided that we needed more drunken debauchery, so we called around and got a room in a hotel out in Metairie (a few miles outside New Orleans proper) for the two nights prior to the "Mardi Gras Fork Fest". Lodging accounted for, we waited patiently for the event to arrive.
I (Nate) live in Arkansas. Brant, Josh, and Tim all lived in Austin, TX at the time. Brant and Josh were hetero life-mate roommates and Tim was an expatriate kiwi with a nice apartment far too close to 6th street for the health of his liver. Since I didn't want to drive my own car around New Orleans during Mardi Gras, I drove down to Austin the night before we were to leave. From there, we all piled into Brant's Chevy Malibu and headed toward New Orleans.
The first fun began in Houston. We hit Houston around lunchtime and the traffic was somewhat heavy. Tim noticed that the HOV (High Occupancy Vehicle) lane was wide open and since there were four of us in the car, Brant swung the boat over into the realm of commuter swiftness. Everything was going just swimmingly--until there suddenly appeared a barrier between our new-found happy-fun-time lane and the rest of the interstate. We were worried, but not THAT worried. Then the lane split off from the rest of the interstate completely and we found ourselves dropped right into downtown Houston, staring up in confusion at the raised interstate highway above us. We spent the next hour driving around Houston trying to find out how to get back on the interstate. Residents of Houston: What The Fuck? Most of the time we were never out of sight of the interstate's looming gray mass. Many times it hung in the air directly over our heads as if taunting us. "Come on pussies, it's just a measly hundred foot vertical hop." We drove through areas with burned-out cars sitting on the street, slowly rusting. We drove through areas where subdivision security guards followed us like hawks until we left. Finally, after so much torment, we magically appeared next to an on-ramp and were shortly on our slightly-less-merry way.
We made it the rest of the way without any significant incidents, and that evening arrived at our hotel in Metairie. When we got up to the room we noticed immediately that it had large sliding-glass doors that opened out onto a small "balcony". This hotel had a larger, 3-or-so-story-tall section, and then a taller tower adjacent to it. Our room was on the first floor of the tower above the roof of the lower section, so the "balcony" was actually a section of the lower area's roof with a guard rail around it. Blast, the door was bolted shut! But wait, Brant had as always been a good Boy Scout and had handy his Leatherman. A few minutes' worth of work and we had open access to the roof of our hotel. That night we took a cab down to the french quarter and wandered around. We didn't drink too much--we were mostly just getting our bearings. Once we made it back to the hotel, we got buzzed in the hotel bar and hit the sack.
I honestly don't remember what we did for most of the next day but when the evening neared we hit some grocery stores and stocked up on booze, deciding to get hammered in the hotel. And hammered we got. Here's a tip for the kids: when you're quite drunk, wandering around on a rooftop is probably not the best idea. I have no idea how none of us ended up spread out over a wide area on the pavement below. We spent a lot of time out on the roof. We knocked on people's windows and had several groups track down which room we came from so they could get outside themselves. At some point, Brant and Tim stole a luggage cart from a poor defenseless bellhop. They came tearing down the hallway pushing it in front of them, and hid it in the room. When they tired of that, the cart was taken on a whirlwind tour of the hotel. Brant sitting on it, they rode up and down the elevators for quite some time, got off on random floors, and knocked on random doors trying to get people to join them. They got at least one room's occupants to come out and have some fun, including the girl who'd just gotten out of the shower. Overall, a good time was had by all.
The following morning it was time to check out of the hotel in Metairie. We packed all our shit back into the car and drove down to downtown New Orleans. Our new hotel was down on Lee Circle, and since that's a parade route we were forced to park a good mile and a half away. We left our stuff in the car and wandered around downtown for a while, watching some parades as we made our way to the hotel. Once there, about 1pm, we were told that our room wouldn't be ready until 4pm. With three hours to kill, we wandered around some more. Food was on our mind, so we stopped in a place called (I think) Polynesian Joe's for a bowl of gumbo and a Gatorade. While we were there I ordered a kamikaze from Joe's angry bartender wife. It was the worst one I've ever had--I managed to down about half of the small glass of vile liquid. Running out of crap to do, we headed back to the hotel and lounged in the lobby until our rooms were ready. Once the desk clerk gave us our keys, we headed upstairs and watched some TV for a few minutes. We decided that it was time to go bring our stuff from the faraway car, so we began the journey. As we walked out of the hotel it was about 5pm, and the Bacchus parade was nearing. The Bacchus is one of the biggest parades during Mardi Gras and so the sidewalks were absolutely packed with people.
Weaving our way through the churning masses, I experienced a very weird feeling for the briefest moment. The best way to describe it was that I had a full-body, violent electrocution-like shiver that lasted only a split-second. "That was...odd," I thought to myself. Perhaps a dozen steps later, it happened again. The rest of the guys were several paces ahead of me, so I called ahead to Josh, who was the nearest. "Hey Josh, if I start... freaking out... or something, don't leave me, OK?" Josh gave me a look that said, "You are absolutely fucking insane," and turned back around. A few moments later as we were walking past a wrought-iron fence, it hit me. The shiver came on and didn't leave. I remember thinking, "Oh. Mother. Fuck." I remember swinging around awkwardly and attempting to grab onto the fence to keep from falling over. It felt like I was being electrocuted, only it didn't really hurt. Then there was nothing.
(Begin Brant's account)
After Nate's aside to Josh, Josh came up to me and relayed the information, with some choice commentary vis-a-vis Nate's questionable genetic background and intelligence. I glanced back to ensure that he was keeping up with the procession, and I saw Nate clenching a wrought iron fence and shaking.
I called out to Tim and Josh and approached Nate, trying to see if he was having a panic attack or something more serious was happening. I touched him on the shoulder and felt that his muscles were turgid, and saw the tendons standing out on his neck and in his wrists.
At this point I realized that something was wrong.
I pried Nate's hands from his newly found friend "Fencey" and tried to keep his sweaty, trembling ass from breaking itself on the concrete. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and it was all I could do to keep my jacket under his head and his arms and legs out from the chain link fence.
As I was taking Nate down, I told Tim and Josh to find a cop and some EMS. They went off searching for a cop, which proved surprisingly difficult. When they finally found a cop, he didn't believe their account, and told them to move along. Fortunately there was an 'adult' (read: middle-aged woman) who had also been searching for a cop, the cop listened to her and proceeded to call an ambulance and get some medics over to Nate and I. By the time the paras arrived at the scene, the seizure had ended but Nate was still scoring an 11 on the GCS. I gave them a quick rundown on his vitals and the situation--which started the first of possibly hundreds of inquiries about what drugs he was on--and they unsurprisingly recommended a trip to the hospital. He slurred to us that he was "just a little sleepy" and "needed to take a nap." After a couple of minutes of tense negotiations, I managed to convince him that he needed to go to the goddamn hospital and that the middle of the street during Bacchus wasn't the best fucking place to sleep.
The medics asked me to ride with them to fill them in on Nate a bit more, so I tossed Josh my car keys and hopped on the bus, where the medics coerced me into doing something I'd swore I'd never do after leaving my volunteer EMS corps: medical paperwork. As we rode toward the hospital, they asked me a question that would significantly change the course of the evening--does your friend have insurance? Forgetting that Nate was all responsible and steady-job-having and shit, I said no, so they routed us to Charity, a bastion of scumminess in an unsafe part of a pretty unsafe city. By the end of the ride, Nate was generally coherent, so I'll let him continue.
(End Brant's account)
About halfway through the ambulance ride, I started coming back into the world. I heard the paramedic say "So wait, you were a volunteer EMT?" Brant replied that yes he had been several years earlier. The paramedic was surprised. "Oh shit, so you were serious when you said he wasn't on any drugs?" That would become a common question over the next several hours. By the time I was rolled into the hospital I was once again thinking straight. I was shoved into a large room segmented by curtains and told to strip and put on the ever-fun backless hospital gown, which I did. I started explaining my story, first to nurses, then to the doctors who came to see me. They all asked, "What are you on?" I truthfully replied to all of them, "Nothing. I've even only had a half of a drink so far today." They would look at me intently and say, "Riiight. Well, we'll find out the truth from the toxicology report."
Nurses drew enough blood from me to satiate a small vampire army, had me squeeze what little urine I had into a cup, and generally poked and prodded on me. After a couple of hours one of the doctors (Aside: it seemed like there were a very high number of good-looking female doctors in that hospital. Score!) came by, staring at the results of my blood work with a puzzled look. "You...don't have any drugs in your system," she said. Shortly thereafter the nurses came back by and made a second blood withdrawal. They said that they needed to double-check the results of earlier tests. After another hour, two doctors stopped by my bed. One of them looked at me and said, "You really aren't on anything, are you?"
After that, the attitude of all the medical personnel around me changed. I was the one clean-and-sober patient in the area. Across from me was an old drunk with failed kidneys who was in the hospital so he could score some free food. Next to him were a couple of guys who had gotten alcohol poisoning. A few beds down from me was an angry fat lady who'd been stabbed in a bar fight. Suddenly, nurses were stopping by to "check on me" more often. One of the doctors wheeled a table over next to my bed, closed the curtains, and sat down to do paperwork away from the other patients. One at a time, Brant, Josh, and Tim came back to see how I was doing. It was nice of them, but I'm fairly sure that Josh and Tim only came back to see the hot doctors about which Brant had undoubtedly told them.
At some point it was decided that they should perform a CT scan of my noggin, to see what had shaken loose. That was kind of fun, I suppose. I got to sit on a gurney in the middle of an empty hospital hallway on an empty floor with the lights off for about 10 minutes when the orderly stopped to "take a piss" (or rub one out, I don't know). When it came down to it later that evening, the doctors told me they didn't know why I had been lucky enough to have a grand mal seizure while walking down St. Charles street, and that I should just be careful and see my doctor when I got home. Oh, and I shouldn't swim, take baths, climb any ladders, or drive cars. That was going to work well, considering I had to make a drive from Austin back to Arkansas at some point. Shortly after 2am (which made it a 9-hour stay in the ER) I got my pink discharge papers and wandered out into the waiting room.
I quickly located Tim and Josh in the crowded waiting room and walked over to them. I asked, "Is Brant outside smoking?" "No," Tim said.
(Begin Brant's account)
No, I wasn't outside smoking. After leaving Nate in the ER, I went out to the waiting room to see how Tim and Josh were doing. They were talking to a girl. Mind you, she wasn't a particularly pretty girl, but she was inordinately interested in what the fellas had to say. I approached my friends, and they introduced me to the girl. "Oh, you're the mysterious Brant--the one without a girlfriend!"
At this point things became interesting.
I was introduced to the girl, and promptly forgot her name--which is why I'll be referring to her as Whore from here on--and began idle chitchat. It didn't seem she was terribly interested in chatting, and asked if I had any booze. As has been mentioned previously, I was a Boy Scout, and I come fucking prepared.
In the trunk of my car I had a case of piss-warm Coors Light, a fifth of Popov (motto: The Worst Hangover Possible, For Only 6 Dollars a Fifth!) and a fifth of Kahlua; so we decided to adjourn to my vehicle for a romantic cocktail by the lights of the hospital. As we pounded warm cheap vodka and chased it with Coors Light, Whore and I listened to Tom Petty and had a little chat. She explained to me that she wanted to get stuffed, and politely inquired if I would oblige. Gentleman that I am, I proceeded to unbutton her pants and give her vasheen a light massage, determining that yes, she was ready and rarin' to go. Once we both had a pleasant buzz on, we decided it was time to change venue--perhaps to somewhere with a bit more room and fewer police officers milling about.
I went back to the ER, throwing Tim 20 bucks for a cab (I don't leave my boys out in the cold), collected his wallet condom, and headed back to the hotel room. Once we got to the hotel, it was business only. I was expecting this girl to ask me for money or to be a cop, but she just stripped out of her clothes and told me to get busy. I told her to hold for a moment, as I went through the room collecting my wallet, pistol, camera and everything else valuable and locked it in the wall safe.
"Good idea, you've got to be careful of these scummy hotel staff," she tells me, whorishly.
"Yeah, hotel staff," I reply in the studliest of fashions.
I strip off and lie down on the bed, and she starts touching me where I pee, as I encourage her to use her mouth to investigate further, and she does. At one point, she apparently expects me to reciprocate in an oral fashion, but I abstain, since she was a dirty dirty whore whom I picked up in an ER waiting room. After a few minutes of this, we proceed to get down to the fucking.
This was no romantic candle lit lovemaking session; this was rude, animalistic fucking. I hadn't--and at the end of the evening still wouldn't have--kissed her, and we were just plowing away, switching positions with the abandon of two people who'd never see each other again.
I'm fucking her in the position that is colloquially known as 'doggie style' and she looks over her shoulder at me and says,
"Have you ever fucked a girl in the ass?"
"No," I said, not believing where this was going.
"You want too?"
I responded in the only way I could: with some spit and a couple of fingers (further) loosening her tiniest of holes. As I too quickly eased my turgid member into her ass, I heard her squeal in pain, and then relax, accepting the holy sacrament of my penis. As I gained speed and depth in my thrusts, I grabbed onto the headboard--the bolted to the wall headboard--of the bed to give myself some stability and power. After a couple of drunken minutes of glorious anal, she tells me to smack her ass. Being the gentleman I am, I give her a couple of light slaps on her ass.
"I want you to SLAP ME! Don't be such a wuss and put some arm in it!"
Slowly coming to realize how appropriate the Whore moniker was, I put some force into my slaps, watching in amazement as the outline of my hand starts to pepper her pasty ass.
As I approach my climax, there is significant pounding occurring, and at some point I manage to get my hands behind the headboard, loosening it from the wall. Unsurprisingly, I don't notice this and continue using it as a lever. Eventually, the cheap bolts in the headboard give way, slamming it into her head. She doesn't mind, so I just let the headboard drop to the ground, increasing my pace further to push myself over the edge. She pipes up with another request:
"I want you to hit me."
"Right as I'm getting off, I want you to hit me! And don't be a fucking pussy about it, do it like a man!"
At this point I was treating this as a request from a random, and was highly encouraged to fulfill it. I slammed into her ass faster and faster, getting ever closer to my release, and then I felt it.
Her ass started to twitch as she screamed herself through an orgasm. Now, I'm not sure why she got off, we were both drunk and I was brutalizing her ass. But I'll take what I can get, as they say.
So I filled her request, as her contracting ass pushed me over the edge. I hauled off and hit her, closed fist, right in her occipital protuberance (that's the little bump at the base of your skull, where the occipital and parietal bones meet), instantly knocking her out.
You know, it's true what they say about the muscles clenching up after a donkey punch.
Being in mid-orgasm, I couldn't have stopped if the Apocalypse was coming (lol pun), so I finished up in her unconscious ass, pulled out and had what alcoholics refer to as a moment of clarity.
Holy shit. I have a possibly dead bitch in my bed, with a loosey-goosey asshole and a pretty solid case on any forthcoming assault charges. I pull out and check her pulse and respiration. Breathing? Check. Pulse? A little fast, but strong.
After saying my little prayer, I lightly slapped her as she came around, a confused look on her face as I held my breath, waiting for the screams. They never came. She came around, and her eyes slowly uncrossed, and she smiled at me. "That was...great."
As I was exhausted from the long day, slowly sobering up, and had just spent a good chunk of time fucking a whore in the ass and then worrying that I had killed her. I put on my underwear, made sure everything was locked up and started dozing, only to wake to the sound of the key-card in the lock, at which point I leapt up and ran for the door to update the posse.
(End Brant's account)
Tim, Josh and I stood outside the hotel room door, somewhat unsure of how to proceed. We tried putting our ear to the door to determine if there was still stuff going on in the room, but didn't hear anything. As we stood there debating our entrance, Brant hopped out of the room in his underwear and closed the door behind him. He whispered in the most gleeful voice I've ever heard, "Dude, I dirt-holed her!"
We had a very animated conversation over by the ice machine in which Brant explained the events which had earlier unfolded. After a few minutes, we all entered the room. Whore (to borrow Brant's name for her) was lying in one of the beds. Brant vaguely introduced everyone and plopped down on the bed next to her, announcing that he was going to sleep. Tim and Josh decided to go out drinking to regain the 9 hours that they'd lost due to my unfortunate incident. I chose the bed which had not been witness to rough anal sex, and tried to get some sleep.
For a few minutes, it seemed like things were finally going to calm down. Then Brant started snoring. I threw some stuff at him and told him to roll his tubby bitch ass over, which prompted a slight shift in his position. More snoring. Goddammit. After a few minutes, Whore started complaining too. Brant later told me that he doesn't snore, and he was just trying to get rid of her. Well Brant, it worked, because after a half hour or so Whore moved over to the bed I was in. "If you touch me, I'll fucking kill you," she said in a sweet little fingernails-on-the-chalkboard voice. Motherfucker. A grand mal seizure, nine hours in the hospital with no food, and now a white trash masochistic anal whore is threatening to kill me.
I thought that since Brant had gotten rid of her, that there would finally be some peace and quiet. But no, that would be too easy. Shortly thereafter, the whore began moving around a lot, sighing loudly, whimpering. Then she started complaining to me that she wasn't feeling well, she was too hot. I told her to sleep outside the covers or something. She did, but was still too hot evidently, because she stripped naked and got back under the covers. I contemplated the situation, reminding myself of the things that Brant had done to her a scant hour earlier. A few minutes later, she was too cold. I told her that maybe putting on clothes would help. Instead she decided to move over a couple of feet and press herself against my back. I scooted a little closer to the edge of the bed, and she scooted closer still. I scooted once again and gracefully fell the fuck out of the bed, smacking my head on the bedside table.
Fuck. She moved back over a few feet so I could get back into bed, and I thought for a moment that she would stay away. But oh no, as soon as I was settled, she was on top of me again. This time she put her arm over my side, and quickly drifted her hand down south to get a firm grip on my tackle. Lots of people say, "you don't know where X has been!" Well, I knew where this X had been, and I knew I wasn't going to boldly go where Brant had gone before. But...was there any harm in allowing a little grappling? I came to the conclusion that there probably was some harm in it. I prayed that she'd washed her hands at some point, and elbowed her arm out of the way. There were a couple of more vague attempts to get me started, and she got bored. There was yet another moment where I thought I could finally get to sleep. Instead, she roughly grabbed my wrist and thrust my hand into the place where no hand bruised and sore from an IV should go. I thought to myself, "Aw man, there had better be some good goddamn soap in the bathroom." When I didn't pursue, but in fact recoiled, she let go and I moved to wipe my hand off on the sheets as best I could. Finally, she moved aside a bit and I was able to drift off to sleep--but not before pretending to get up and take a leak so I could scrub the whore off my punctured hand.
I was awakened about six in the morning by a series of loud thuds on the door. Tim and Josh stumbled into the room, absolutely hammered, screaming and attempting to lovingly beat the shit out of each other. They were having a blast. Once they saw Whore in bed, they started screaming at her instead. Tim the reserved kiwi in particular was very vocal. He ripped a string of beads from around his neck, thrust them in her direction and screamed, "WHORE! HEYYYY, WHORE! PUT THESE BEADS IN YOUR PUSSY, WHORE! WHORE WHORE WHOREEEEEEEE! BEADS, PUSSY, YOURS!"
After a lot of crashing around and several demands for Whore to insert various things into certain places, Tim and Josh passed out in odd positions on the floor and I fell asleep once again. A few hours later, Whore got out of bed and into the shower. While in the shower, Brant tried to make the case for breaking into the bathroom, picking her up naked and wet, and depositing her in the elevator. Surprisingly coherent now, Tim and Josh both argued heavily against that course of action while I stayed out of the conversation. When she got out of the shower, Brant announced that we had to go meet some friends from high school and had to leave right now. He quickly ushered her out of the door ahead of us. We rode the elevator down in awkward silence. As we exited the hotel she started to say something, but we were quickly lost in the burgeoning parade-time crowd.
That evening started out a little calmer than previous evenings. At some point we headed down to the quarter and wandered around for a while. For some reason, Brant and Josh were convinced that the gay bars were mixing their drinks much stronger than the straight bars, and so headed to one to get a solid buzz going. Since I wasn't drinking for obvious reasons, I ended up standing around in a gay bar watching Brant, Josh, and Tim stand there quietly throwing back the drinks. Boy, this was exciting. It struck me that perhaps they were going to have a little less fun with seizure guy hanging around, so I announced that I was going back to the hotel to get some sleep. I left the guys to their drinks and spent an hour wandering back down Bourbon street, eventually making it back to the hotel. I had a lovely night of hotel TV, and later, deep sleep.
Brant, Josh, and Tim however had a lovely night of intense drinking, titty-flashing, and attempting to re-enact scenes from fight club and even my unfortunate incident. The following morning, Brant noticed that Whore had somehow left behind her outer shirt, so he put it to good use. We checked out of our hotel and started out of town to start the long drive back to Austin. On our way out of town, we stopped for sandwiches. Not just any sandwiches, these were New Orleans Po-Boys. Brant and Josh being Po-Boy fanatics, they each got an extra sandwich to go--so they could have them for dinner when they got home.
Somewhere in east Texas, we got pulled over by the Texas Department of Public Safety (state troopers). Brant definitely deserved it, he was going about 10mph over the speed limit at the time. The trooper asked Brant to get out of the car, and then talked to him outside for a few minutes. We sat in the car quietly, giggling slightly at the fact that Brant was standing on a cold winter highway without a jacket. Through the open window, we overheard the conversation.
"Can I search your car?" the trooper asked.
"No," Brant replied.
"Why?" the trooper queried.
Brant said, "Short answer or long answer?"
"Short," said the trooper.
"The fourth amendment protects me, and the so-called war on drugs has significantly damaged my fourth amendment rights, so I gotta take 'em where I can get 'em," Brant said.
"Well, we've detected the distinct odor of marijuana in your vehicle, which gives us probable cause to search," the trooper claimed.
Brant looked annoyed. "That's horseshit and you know it, but if you have probable cause you're going to search anyway. Just not with my consent."
"Fair enough," said the trooper.
Suddenly there was a knock on the window and the other trooper told us to exit the car. We filed out and were told to stand about twenty feet away, in a ditch, facing away from the road, with our hands on our heads. At this point we replaced our giggling with shivering.
One of the troopers asked Brant, "Is there anything I need to know about? Illegal weapons, drugs, knives?"
Brant replied, "No, but I do have a legal weapon in the trunk--a pistol, full mag empty pipe."
As we stood there, tossing furtive glances over our shoulders, we watched the troopers remove every single item from the cab and trunk of Brant's car. The troopers pulled Brant's pistol case out of the trunk, and took great care at inspecting it to ensure that it was in fact unloaded. They also manually emptied his clips all over the other stuff in the trunk--it was real fun finding all of those shells later. At one point, a trooper discovered a brown paper sack stuffed down between the passenger-side seat and the door. I've never seen an officer of the law so sure of an impending drug bust as that man, and I've never seen such disappointment as when he realized that the paper sack contained only a pair of Po-Boy sandwiches and some napkins. After a time, we were told to hold up our shirts and turn around slowly. Shortly thereafter, all the stuff was put back into the car, and we were allowed to go on our way--with Brant poorer by one speeding ticket, of course.
Once we got back to Austin, I crashed for the night on Brant's couch. The following morning I had the single most nerve-wracking 8-hour drive ever, as I pulled over for any twitch or itch I got, paranoid that I'd have a seizure while driving. Oh, and the final prognosis after seeing my normal doctor, a neurologist, and having both an MRI and a sleep-deprived EEG? It boiled down to, "Well that's really damn weird but nothing is wrong. Just hope it doesn't happen again." Science!