The approaching month made a group of kids restless. About the group of kids, well, they're just a bunch of misfit losers but not the cliched types you'd watch on Glee. The more realistic ones, meaning the less chessy. And they're extremely poor! Yeah, they're poor. I'm sorry I have to emphasise they're poor. Anyway, back to my story.
There's this long time honored tradition within the gang where they would huddle up during the period of "love dates," take a trip down to some paradise of loud thumpa thumpa and bright strobes lights to simply get high.
The girls would dress down to their most revealing and alluring dresses. The men would have their hair trimmed matching a newly bought polo or shirt hugging their not so well-defined built [but all the same handsome], a blessing of their youth.
And why would they do these? Simple. They want to show the brethren, even for that single night, that they too are demigods. That despite the absence of a partner clasping their hands or giving them roses and all that shit, they too can smile [more of a smirk], strut and definitely fuck around!
They would conquer the dance floor with their inviting moves. They do that on purpose. So that when somebody try and dance with them, they would turn to an accomplice brother/sister, then would share some lips on lips action to the horror of the poor victim.
They would laugh at the poor guy or girl's stupidity. They would laugh at their own stupidity. They would drown themselves with alcohol until nobody could notice that they are the same outcasts of the everyday life. They would smoke cigars so their angsts and anguish would trail up in the air, leaving them peaceful even for that merciful split of time. Behold, the bad-asses!
Oh but the gang was not all that losers. One or two, the luckier get hitched. They couldn't come. Or they could join the ritual if they promise they would be the "guardians." Poor creatures who could only take a bottle of venom, a maximum of three depending on his/her capacity, so they could prevent the other kids from lying down on the street, taking the poor cab driver's vest, the girls flashing their tits at unsuspecting passersby or simply just to make sure that they all go back to their headquarter the same number as they checked out.
At late morning, the smell of a brewing coffee would wake them up to a painful reality. There are laughters as they they try recall the happenings of the previous night. High-pitched laugh to hide the vexation. Crazy humor to bury down the infection. After a hefty breakfast, one by one they would leave. And so the cycle continues.
There's a Master to all these rituals. Even by the absence of decree, it just came naturally that he is to be the Master, not only for such ceremonies but the unspoken leader of the gang. They would wait patiently as the Master frowns scratching his chin trying to drag out a diabolical plan that would blow everybody's mind out.
Now, the Master of these ceremonies is wondering. He has some questions. Sure he wants to join his herd for good times. But in the very essence of the ritual, is he still worthy of it? A part of him is nudging him saying, "no, you won't be a part of it this year honey" while the other part is laughing at him, teasing, "you hopeless-romantic-stupid-schmuck, yes, you sir are hallucinating!."
No matter what, one thing is sure. The Master would always be the same loser. The same misfit. The same outcast. After all, the Master has to live by his name -the Désolé Boy
"Beautiful, dirty-rich" by Lady Gaga