a girl can dream anyway.
here's An Indyfluency Christmas by my friend foxy
Of course I would meet Galantee on a bus. After nearly being knocked over by the exiting passengers, I boarded and took my seat in between a man with a goatee and young teenager listening to something on her iPod at that volume that is audible enough to be annoying, but not loud enough to make me complain. Crowds make me feel nervous, stressed, and inadequate, so I looked up at the ceiling and decided for the hundredth time that I hated trying to travel anywhere during the Christmas season (I never learn- you must not leave your house within a week of Christmas).
Meanwhile, the bus-driver was swearing under his breath (about the same volume as the girl’s iPod) as he tried to inch through a blob of blatantly jaywalking pedestrians. He must’ve hit the curb or something; a sudden jolt wrenched my head from its upward gaze and brought me face to face with the man sitting in front of me. We proceeded to do that thing, where two people stare at each other because they think they’ve met before even though they definitely haven’t so it’s really more of a double deja-vu, and we did this for maybe a minute before I realized why we were staring at each other. His arm. I saw on his upper arm, just below the shoulder, the tattoo: printed neatly in a circle (Times New Roman), “IF.” I said nothing, but nodded and raised my sleeve until he could see the same tattoo on my arm. This time he nodded. At the next stop we both exited and immediately walked together in silence.
After about ten minutes, we came to an abandoned warehouse, the designated meeting place. We entered and beheld in the middle of the enormous room a similarly enormous Christmas tree, adorned, not with ornaments tinsel and baubles, but with disks of metal. On each disc, a poem had been etched in small print- Carroll, Poe, Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, Kipling, Bashõ, Goethe…looking them over, I became certain that no one had been left out. Underneath the tree were presents, but of course we had to wait until everyone else had arrived.
I looked back up at the man from the bus. “Galantee, I presume?” I asked.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Totally wild guess. I figured if I met someone on the bus, it would be you.”
He chuckled and extended his hand for me to shake, “And you are?”
“Fox” I said, gripping his hand, “So, um, when does everyone else get here?”
“They should be here soon, I guess we’re a tad early. Let’s go look at our stockings.”
Galantee led me to the far end of the warehouse, where pinned to the wall were several stockings. These were just little treats, so we could have them while we waited.
“Um, who filled these stockings,” I asked, taking a small bottle of gasoline out of mine.
“Dunno, Brother Scorn?” Galantee answered, also removing gasoline from his stocking, “Santa wouldn’t touch this place. I guess gasoline is the new coal.”
Everyone had gasoline.
Still, no one had arrived. I was getting nervous, because I’m incapable of not getting nervous, and busied myself looking at the swirling rainbow patterns in my gasoline. Galantee was standing back at the tree, calmly reading the poems that covered it. Suddenly, there was a loud bang as the door flew open. They were here. Finally, in came MiladyAlise, Purple Haze, Golden Orchids, Neono, ITC, Bowers, Ironypills, Poison333, Radtastic, Burning Sands, Subliminal, Cyanide, Kluny, and the Milkman. They had all come for Indyfluency Christmas. We laughed and greeted each other (really, it was more of a brief, get-to-know-each-other orgy, because it is Indyfluency after all), and then sat down by the great tree to unwrap presents.
And because they were from Brother Scorn, they all contained sulfur.
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