After three thousand murders and one dead best friend, it took the effort involved with driving a stake through one certain oracle who’d really outgrown his welcome last May to wake Drew up. The one who had all the answers, apparently, was now laying in a morgue, or hospital, somewhere. Who cares. The fog had been lifted and when he wiped his eyes, a lot of things became clearer.
Meaningless sex, as Theresa mocked him nearby, wasn’t just meaningless anymore. It was stupid. Sex in general is stupid. Drew began to wonder just how much of his welcome he had really worn out. The more quarters they slipped into Pizza Hut jukeboxes, the more suspicious and reluctant their hellos and nods became in the halls. It made Drew feel more alive than ever.
People seemed to be friendly only when others weren’t around. Was it all just some crap Theresa pumped into his head because of her special role in his life? No, their increasing hostility at his very presence was because he’d been smart enough to slay that fucking oracle.
Had it all been a dream? Sometimes he just wasn’t sure anymore who was writing this. The moment something goes awry or is uncomfortable most people scatter fast. Theresa screams at them, but they don’t hear her. She’d like to slay that other blond who stole her idea. They walk past a group of staked ideas sitting together and make their way to the back of the student center. No more wasting time; coffee was now reserved for Theresa.
They would hole themselves up this winter and plot and scheme and annihilate. More coffee would be consumed; Borges and Sorrentino would be discussed. Come second term, presidential and academic, things were going to be a lot different.
We can always carve a bigger stake.