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Thrap, thrap, thrap.
An agitated 21-year-old college student named Steve successively tapped the fingers of his left hand again and again, each time quicker than before, on the surface of the library table he shared with several fraternity brothers. The group was preparing to study for various final exams they had the next day–for the first time. The general consensus at the table was that they were all “completely fucked.” Two of them were drunk. Steve, however, could not afford the luxury of pouring Ten High bourbon into an emptied out library coffee cup. He desperately needed a good grade.
Papers were strewn out in front of Steve. He had a study guide for his final exam, completely untouched by pen, as well as notes from the class. Steve had not taken these notes himself, however, but rather gained them by way of a wildly regrettable sexual encounter with a girl from the class. Normally, getting notes from a hookup would be an added bonus to an affair that was already fantastic for him and varying levels of debatable enjoyableness for the lady. However, this coital chore was done out of necessity, and was not so much pleasurable as it was simply memorable. Memorable, that is, in a Vietnam flashback or nightmares of a child rescued from abduction sort of way; and like the visions of a naked man in a Jimmy Carter mask shoving a bowl of cold oatmeal through the slit of his basement dungeon’s metal door that a neglected, blond-haired child has after being rescued from said human skin farm by the FBI, the memories this particular hookup haunted Steve.
The class for which Steve needed literally an entire semester’s worth of notes was Revolutionary France. It was a history class he only enrolled in to fulfill some crap Gen Ed requirement, and because nearly everything else was full when he got around to registering a month before classes began. When the end of the semester rolled around, Steve realized pickings for prospective note-givers in the class were slim, but only figuratively. Still, he opted to go after the most attractive girl in lecture for notes. This was not much of a challenge; she was a hard five, though Steve had convinced himself she was a soft six. It was a mental conversation Steve had had with himself more than a few times before. Steve wined and dined the girl, with Franzia and late night Taco Bell, respectively. After a night of heavy drinking, he finally got down to earning her notes, specifically by going down on the girl. The girl was an enthusiastic recipient, and she moaned like a recently widowed banshee.
“I wanna squirt for you,” she huffed in the throes of passion.
“Nope, it’s cool, don’t worry about it,” Steve replied when he came up gasping for air, like a snorkeler crawling through a swamp.
Still, she gyrated and moaned onward, touching herself all over while Steve worked as quickly as possible to earn the notes.
“I’m gonna squirt. You’re gonna MAKE me,” she continued.
“Not trying, please don’t.”
The girl barreled on toward climax. With all her might, despite Steve’s clear and adamant wishes, she attempted to squirt for her lover, pushing and fondling herself with an effort that shook her. Noticing this, Steve once again stopped his work briefly to assure her that he was not interested in having her burst a human water main in his face, which was mere millimeters away.
“Seriously, you don’t—”
Steve gasped. Mid-sentence, it had shot right down his throat. Not a squirt, but rather a bellowing queef that the girl had inadvertently forced out with her efforts.
“HUHHHHH,” Steve continued to gasp as he grabbed at his throat.
The gasps turned to chokes and coughs. Steve had swallowed the vaginal blast of air. It had shot right down his throat. Steve fell backward, hard into the wall, leaving a giant hole, and then onto the ground, where he began to gag violently.
“Que-que–you queefed…IN me,” he sputtered in disbelief.
On his hands and knees, Steve started to dry heave. He wanted to vomit up everything inside of him: the food, the booze, his organs, his soul. It was all tainted by the queef bubble floating within him. He could feel it. The relief wasn’t coming fast enough, so Steve decided to pull the trigger to speed things up. He nearly ripped out his throat before the Crunchwrap Supreme, a gallon or so of the Franzia-Natty-Fireball combo he imbibed, and everything else came roaring out. And then, finally, a burp. The queef.
“I tasted it again!” He wailed. “How was it last?!”
It may have all been in his head, but he violently purged himself a few more times, just to be sure.
“I came,” the girl offered as reassurance.
Steve puked one more time. A great and terrible gust of wind had nearly killed him.
The memory shook Steve, and he jolted suddenly in his seat at the library table.
“The fuck’s the matter with you?” his fraternity brother, Darren, asked.
“Nothing. I just–where the fuck is Nick with my Addy?!” Steve demanded, wanting to focus on the present rather than the horrific past.
“You’re so Goddamn fidgety and pissy–are you sure you’re not on it already?”
“Yes! I’m sure!” Steve shot back. “I’ve done too much for this class to not get a decent grade and I need the Addy to study.”
“Done too much?” Darren laughed. “You only went to, like, 10 classes all semester. What the fuck did you do for this class, exactly?”
“NOTHING, FORGET IT!”
Another fraternity brother slammed his backpack down on the table and turned to Steve. It was Nick, Steve’s pledge brother with the Adderall prescription, who, at the moment, was one of the more prominent amphetamine suppliers within a five-mile radius, not counting 12 of the residents at the trailer park just off the highway.
“Which one of you dumbasses feels like getting a C instead of a D on his finals tomorrow?” Nick asked.
“It’s too late for me. I’m fuckin’ drunk. I’m just gonna get on Yik Yak an’ see if anyone is tryna bang in the stacks,” a drunk brother replied.
“Solid backup plan.”
“I need, uh, three,” Steve said.
“Okay,” Nick replied, reaching into his bag.
Nick handed Steve three 20 milligram extended release pills. Steve swallowed them immediately.
“Jesus Christ, dude, you don’t need to take them all at once.”
“Yeah, I do,” Steve retorted. “Gotta pass.”
“You don’t take this shit regularly. Three is overkill for me and I take it everyday. I don’t need a phone call asking why my pledge brother’s heart exploded later.”
“It’s fine. How much?” Steve asked.
“Twenty bucks,” Nick said, flatly.
Steve handed Nick a twenty dollar bill and started sorting through the notes in front of him.
“I’ll let you know if I need more later,” Steve informed Nick, as he organized his hard-earned notes.
“Yeah, you’re not gonna need more. And I gave you that at a discount. You think I’m just gonna give this shit away? I could make a bill and still have enough left over to trade for more blowjobs than Darren gets on, well, a normal night.”
“That’s a lot,” Darren replied flatly.
“Everyone shut the fuck up, I need to study,” Steve ordered.
“God, you’re gonna be a dickhole once that shit kicks in.”
Steve shooed Nick away and dove into a semester’s worth of information on the French Revolution, a subject about which he knew even less than he cared–that is, until the Adderall kicked in.
A half hour later, Steve’s focus was pointed and intense. He started to fly through the notes on the French Revolution. The information swirled about him and into his mind like a great maelstrom of knowledge funneling down into his brain as he scribbled and read like a madman, understanding none of it, but absorbing it all. The Estates-General, Robespierre, the Battle of Valmy, the Bastille, “a whiff of grapeshot,” the Legislative Assembly, the execution of Louis XVI–all of it was around Steve. It was inside of him, and he was inside of it, moving about it with his mind. It was as if there wasn’t a world outside his notes.
Then, finally, Steve looked up from the library table, except it wasn’t there anymore. The library, along with everyone in it, was gone. Instead, Steve now stood on a cobblestone street. People in funny clothes and wigs hurried past him, toward a square teeming with angry people. Curious, Steve followed them. He arrived at the square to find a mob gathered around a large, wooden stage.
“What’s going on?” Steve asked a nearby man who was covered in filth and wore rags for clothes.
“Honh honh thleu glah très bleu non ménage à trois!” the ragged man exclaimed.
It all sounded like nonsense being spouted out by a man chewing taffy, because it was French, but somehow Steve understood. The king of France was about to be executed.
“AW, FUCK YEAH!” Steve shouted with approval.
On the stage, a man in a long, white wig was shoved up the stairs, while peasants pelted him with tomatoes and wet cheese. Steve grabbed a nearby bottle of wine and swilled it with joy. He had no idea where he was or how he got there, but he was pretty sure he was about to watch his first execution, and for whatever reason, in that moment, it was pretty tits.
The man in the white wig, King Louis XVI, reached the top of the stage and faced the crowd. They booed like Frenchmen.
“BEEEUUUUUUUU! BEUUUUUU!” they roared, intermittently frightening each other with their loud noises. This caused the crowd to move in a constant state of flux as the Frenchmen surrendered the space they were standing in to louder neighbors, out of their natural penchant for deference.
A tall man in a dark hood approached the front of the stage, where he stood next to Louis XVI. The tall man removed his hood and Steve’s eyes widened with awe. It was Hugh Jackman. He pointed to King Louis.
“This man has perpetrated the unspeakable against Frawnce,” Jackman shouted to the crowd.
“Frawwwnnnceee,” the crowd crowed back.
“France, wooo, fuck yeah! I’m learning about you!” Steve shouted before taking another pull of wine.
“Do you have any final words, you stupid dick?” Jackman asked of King Louis.
The crowd booed again.
“Yeah, booo, fuck that pussy! KILL THAT MOTHERFUCKER!” Steve shouted.
“I have but one thing to say,” King Louis said in a high-pitched, foppish voice. “It is a far, far better thing that I do–”
“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” Jackman snapped before deploying his Wolverine claws and slicing off Louis XVI’s head with a single blow.
The crowd roared in approval.
“AW YEAH WOLVERINE! YOU MOTHERFUCKERS DON’T EVEN KNOW!” Steve exclaimed.
Hugh Jackman picked up the king’s decapitated head, laughed, humped it a little bit while feigning vinegar strokes, and then tossed out into the crowd, directly into Steve’s arms. Steve caught the freshly chopped head, which was still spouting blood and making facial expressions, like an awestruck young boy who snagged a foul ball at a big league game.
Learning. Is. Awesome., Steve thought.
“Hey Steve,” Jackman said. “You wanna be best friends?”
“Shit yeah I do, Wolverine!” Steve shouted back excitedly.
“Steve, Steve, Steve!” Jackman chanted to the crowd.
“Steve, Steve, Steve,” the crowd cried, joining Hugh Jackman’s chant and shaking Steve.
Steve was ecstatic. He began chanting his name with the crowd, when suddenly…
“STEVE! STEVE! STEVE!” Darren shouted in Steve’s face, as he shook his entranced fraternity brother.
“Wha–what?” Steve asked, all of the sudden disoriented and inexplicably back in the library.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What? What’s going on?”
Steve was back in the library, now standing across the room from his original table, as dozens of people stared at him in horror.
“What do you mean what’s going on?” Darren asked, exasperated. “You just walked over here, stole that girl’s bottle of water, chugged it, and then started shouting ‘KILL THAT MOTHERFUCKER’ and ‘WOLVERINE’ at that white-haired janitor.”
In the corner, a kindly old janitor wept and cowered behind his cart.
“I–no, I was studying,” Steve said, unable to grasp the situation.
“You were, yeah, for like, three hours. Then you got up and did all that shit. You also talked a lot of gibberish in a French accent. And I think you asked for a threesome, too.”
Steve was at a loss for words. Darren simply shook his head, apologized to the girl whose water bottle Steve stole, got her number, and told her to meet him in the stacks in 30 minutes.
Darren carefully led Steve back to their table, where, finally, Steve explained what he thought had happened. At the end of Steve’s story, Darren took a deep breath and tried his best to make sense of the situation.
“So if I can get this straight,” Darren began, “you buried yourself in French Revolution notes for three hours and were so Addied out that you actually thought you were in the French Revolution?”
“I guess. I was pretty into it…” Steve said, trailing off.
“Yeah, except you read hard information on the French Revolution and somehow came away getting all of those actual facts confused with ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and the movie-musical ‘Les Miserables,’ two works of fiction. The latter doesn’t even take place during the French Revolution you’re studying. All of that I can see you confusing because you aren’t good at history, I guess. And the Wolverine thing, well, we’ll chalk that up to you being fully retarded. You know Adderall doesn’t really work if you’re a fucking idiot, right?”
“Whatever,” Steve muttered.
“Maybe go outside and have a smoke, bud. Clear your head. I gotta head up to the stacks and bury myself in a…book,” Darren said, excusing himself from the table.
Steve, at a loss, got up and headed outside to smoke a cigarette.
“I think I took too much Adderall.”