The ping pong ball is poised and ready, pinched between two perfectly manicured fingernails. On the other end of a battered pine table littered with red solo cups, a young, obnoxious, and devilishly handsome Alva Berzelius holds a plastic vuvuzela to his mouth.
“Neeeessssssss,” he sings into the vuvuzela like a kazoo. “Beer’s going flaaaaaaat.”
“That sounds like a you problem to me.” There’s a Bostonian bent to her words, and a little more barely disguised amusement than usual, but the woman holding that ping pong ball is unmistakably Ms. Clytemnestra Altizer.
A grungy house party unfolds around the pair, Eurotrash club music shaking the walls while some girl vomits out a nearby window. Towers of empty beer cans dot the house, stretching from floor to ceiling and disguised as decoration. Drunk jackasses on cardboard sleds try to slalom around the towers, shooting down a flight of carpeted stairs. Some petite blonde girl with three feet of cleavage drops a solo cup of beer by Alva’s side and puts a hand on his shoulder, and Nes looks away quickly to hide the sneer on her face. A man across the party (tall, gorgeous, mature) makes eye contact with her and waves, and Nes tosses one back half-heartedly.
“Doot-doo-doo-DOOOOOOOOOOO.” Alva’s stupid plastic horn pulls her attention back to front. The blonde with the boobs is still there, standing behind him. “The pong of beer awaits, Nestra.”
“And I’m sure you can’t wait to finish,” she mumbles under her breath and lobs the ball straight at his head. Alva throws a hand out to block it, vuvuzela still sticking out of his mouth, and everything—ball, music, the trip a young Alva Berzelius is currently taking straight into disaster—stops right where it is.
MEMORY: Party Games
[CRITERIA: Solve The Puzzle]
The ping pong ball is poised and ready, pinched between two perfectly manicured fingernails. On the other end of a battered pine table littered with red solo cups, a young, obnoxious, and devilishly handsome Alva Berzelius holds a plastic vuvuzela to his mouth.
“Neeeessssssss,” he sings into the vuvuzela like a kazoo. “Beer’s going flaaaaaaat.”
“That sounds like a you problem to me.” There’s a Bostonian bent to her words, and a little more barely disguised amusement than usual, but the woman holding that ping pong ball is unmistakably Ms. Clytemnestra Altizer.
A grungy house party unfolds around the pair, Eurotrash club music shaking the walls while some girl vomits out a nearby window. Towers of empty beer cans dot the house, stretching from floor to ceiling and disguised as decoration. Drunk jackasses on cardboard sleds try to slalom around the towers, shooting down a flight of carpeted stairs. Some petite blonde girl with three feet of cleavage drops a solo cup of beer by Alva’s side and puts a hand on his shoulder, and Nes looks away quickly to hide the sneer on her face. A man across the party (tall, gorgeous, mature) makes eye contact with her and waves, and Nes tosses one back half-heartedly.
“Doot-doo-doo-DOOOOOOOOOOO.” Alva’s stupid plastic horn pulls her attention back to front. The blonde with the boobs is still there, standing behind him. “The pong of beer awaits, Nestra.”
“And I’m sure you can’t wait to finish,” she mumbles under her breath and lobs the ball straight at his head. Alva throws a hand out to block it, vuvuzela still sticking out of his mouth, and everything—ball, music, the trip a young Alva Berzelius is currently taking straight into disaster—stops right where it is.