Your Princess is in Another Castle

by Richard Fore

  “What are you in the mood for?” I try, liking the double entendre. At first contact the girls can see I view them only as disposable sex toys, so most likely they’re instinctually turned on while in their minds they’re formulating plans to change me into a guy more like their best friend who they’ve already rejected a dozen times because he’s too nice.

  Pink and Hottie both turn to face me. Pink smiles, but I can see Hottie immediately suspects a sheep in wolf’s clothing. She studies me curiously, as if she were trying to think of a way to trick me into dropping a geek reference. While I’m on my guard I still hope she has no geek knowledge to draw on, although it’s always possible she knows Dick Grayson became Nightwing after abandoning the Robin identity due to a geeky younger brother.

  “I want a drama, but Briley wants a comedy,” says Pink. She’s actually more attractive than Hottie and appears more interested, so I should recommend a comedy. My disinterest in what Pink wants will cause her to wonder what she could do to capture my interest rather than drive her off. And National Lampoon Presents Van Wilder starring Ryan Reynolds seems like the obvious choice for recommendation, but Hottie can likely quote it line by line already. But what would she like? What wouldn’t give me away? I suddenly wish Dwayne’s rape story had a film adaptation.

  (“The Flash would never have a chance on film,” said Chris. “Because he’d be played by someone like Ryan Reynolds. Like the asshole didn’t suck enough already in Blade: Trinity. Hannibal King got raped almost as bad Bane did in Batman and Robin what with Reynolds’ pissing all over the Tomb of Dracula legacy with his Van Wilder shtick.”

  “But the Wally West Flash actually has a similar personality to Ryan Reynolds, said Seth. “And I thought he was pretty funny in Waiting.”)

  “Have you seen Waiting?” I ask. “It’s pretty funny.”

  “No,” says Pink. “What’s it about?”

  “Who’s in it?” asks Hottie.

  “It stars Ryan Reynolds. It’s a lot like Van Wilder except it’s set in the restaurant business.” I think I’m right about that, although I can’t imagine being wrong.

  “He’s so hot,” says Hottie. “I’ll see if they have that. Thanks.” Hottie gives me the evil eye before walking away. I don’t fool her. She sees it all. The midnight attendance of Episodes I, II, and III (I kept naively thinking they had to get better). My misunderstanding of the nature of beer pong. Perhaps some women can simply intuit who’s an over twenty virgin. But then why is Hottie leaving and not warning Pink of my true nature? Perhaps the two are roommates and Hottie simply desires to personally witness what she believes is my inevitable downfall.

  “You don’t really like Ryan Reynolds movies,” says Pink.

  My first instinct is take up that defensive stance Q went into when he unexpectedly encountered Guinan in Ten Forward. Pink could go hostile any moment. But I manage to play it cool. “I don’t?”

  “No, you don’t. I could tell by your tone of voice. And you’ve been checking us out for awhile. So you either suggested a Reynolds movie as your means of talking to Briley or as a strategy to get her to go away so you could talk to me. Or you could be supremely confident and be attempting a dual seduction. Although I’ll be upfront with you and tell you that isn’t going to work.”

  “Well, if your friend isn’t in to that I have some female acquaintances who might be,” I say. Pink laughs. “But I wanted to talk to you. I like a girl who knows not all counts are vampires.” This is a safe line of conversation. After all, Pink corrected Hottie on it.

  “Just Dracula and the Count from Sesame Street,” says Pink.

  I laugh, although there’s also Janus Hassildor. “Both of the movies your friend vetoed are good by the way, especially Requiem. It’s by the same guy who directed Pi.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen that, either. What’s it about?”

  “It’s a psychological thriller about a math genius who believes that everything in the world can be understood through numbers. It’s one of those movies though where you shouldn’t know too much about it before you see it.”

  “That sounds interesting. I’m actually a math major myself at Northwestern, but I’m definitely not on the verge of comprehending the mysteries of the universe through the power of numbers.”

  “I’d have thought you were a psychology major the way you were deconstructing my approach.”

  “My minor,” says Pink as she takes a little bow.

  “I study English at Northwestern. It hasn’t helped me understand much, either.”

  “So you’re an English major? Listening to Briley must have been torture for you, then.”

  “I’ve heard much worse, especially from my own classmates. Sometimes I think English majors themselves are the ones who read the least.” Good. I’m establishing that I believe myself superior to those around me. I’m being a jerk. They get laid. I should now ask Pink something about Hottie instead of a question about herself. “So what’s Briley’s major?”

  “She’s undeclared. She’s mostly there for the parties.”

  “Hey, who isn’t?” Northwestern has a reputation for being a party school. I’ve never been to a party, although I’ve seen them advertised on the campus sidewalks. Usually there’s a message written with chalk boasting about the number of kegs that will be there. I’ve also seen promises of big tits and girls making out with each other. The chalk writers may lack subtly in their advertisements but that’s only because they know deep down women like being seen as nothing but sex objects.

  “So are you going to the big one this weekend?” I ask. I’m assuming there must be an A-Number 1 party each weekend in addition to lesser ones for the uncool.

  “You mean at the Zeta Psi Mu house?” asks Pink.

  “Yeah,” I say, confident I’m not being tested.

  “I sure am. Both of us are going, actually. Are you?”

  “Of course.” I need to wrap things up. Be like Shadow from Final Fantasy VI and come and go like the wind. Chicks like the dark and mysterious type. “So maybe I’ll see you there.” That was good. I’ve established I’m open to seeing her at the party, but not counting on it. I can’t show too much enthusiasm without coming across as a Poor Platonic. If Pink is reassured that I’d have no problem scoring a girl even hotter than she is at the party she’ll see me as a challenge and want me all the more. “I’m Clyde, by the way,” I add.

  “I’m Richelle,” says Pink. “And I think I’ll go ahead and give Pi a try after Briley falls asleep.”

  “Good,” I say. “You can tell me what you think if you see me at the party.” Score! But I can’t do this alone. I’m going to need a guide, someone to tell me where and when the Zeta Psi Mu party is. Fortunately, Pink has a friend I can use as an offering to Seth in exchange for his help.

  The sky is the color of television, tuned to a dead NES deck. Despite the cold, I’ve nevertheless spotted a half-dozen whale tails on display since I sat on a bench in university square. Actual whalers should be so lucky.

  “Okay, I’m here, so what’s up?” asks Seth as he sits next to me. “And why are we meeting on a bench out in the open like this? I feel like I should be handing you a briefcase full of unmarked bills in exchange for some revealing photographs.” Seth gives me a curious once-over. “Why the hell are you wearing a White Sox jersey?” To his credit he avoids doing a double-take, a gag that wore out its welcome the first time it was used in the Roger Moore Bond films.

  “Seth,” I say, “I want to go to a party this weekend. Specifically, the Zeta Psi Mu party. I met this girl in the video store yesterday and told her I was going to be there. She has a friend too, someone for you to hook up with. We can go together and there’ll be one for each of us.”

  Seth rises from the bench. He pulls his sunglasses down so they hang off the tip of his nose as if he were checking out a hot girl. “You’re not you,” he says. “You look like you, you sound like you, but you’re not you. Obviously, you’re either a changeling, a sn
atcher, or a replicant, and the real you is lying face down in a ditch somewhere dead.”

  “Or, I’ve been replaced by my Mirror Universe counterpart,” I say.

  “That would explain the White Sox jersey, our you would never wear one.”

  “Oh, you know I’ve always loved the Sox. Sit back down.”

  “No. Name three people who play for the Sox. In fact, name three people who play baseball.”

  “Well, there’s Honus Wagner, Cap Anson, and Mordecai ‘Three Finger’ Brown.”

  “Uh-huh. I take it your pick for right-field has been dead for a hundred and thirty years, too. So why the Sox? They’re not even the local team.”

  “I just liked their colors. Black and white have such a strong contrast.”

  “Are you wearing a gold chain, too?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “Because nice guy me wouldn’t wear one. I’m also growing a goatee but I’ve only not shaved for two days, so it’ll be a little while longer before I have the full beard of evil. After Jessica rejected me my eyes just opened all of a sudden. My whole life I’ve been a sad sack Poor Platonic, the kind of pushover nice guy women always falsely claim to want to date.

  “So, I’ve decided to become the kind of bad boy that has women lining up to be used and abused by. The kind of guy my mirror universe counterpart would be. So, I’m growing the goatee and wearing the jersey and gold chain. I’ve worn this shirt for the past two days, though. I’ll need something different to wear when I see this girl at the party. I’m thinking of going back to Sports Authority and getting a football jersey. Women like jocks. There’s no way I’d have gotten anywhere with this Richelle girl if I’d have been wearing a Spidey t-shirt.”

  Seth sits back down. “I think you’ve totally lost your mind.”

  “Have I? I think I’ve finally found it. Now gimme the details about this party.”

  “If you’re really serious about going, Zeta Psi Mu is a sorority. And their party is Friday night. I wasn’t planning on going this weekend, but I’ve been to some of them before. I suppose I could go with you.”

  “Yes, do. And you’ll like Briley. That’s Richelle’s friend. She’s a hottie. Her shirt proudly said so.”

  “Even taking your mental breakdown into account, I still can’t believe you want to go to a party. You’ve always adhered to this bizarre belief system whereby you place people into a Saved by the Bell-esque caste system where you either hang with the most popular kids in school or you’re ludicrously nerdy and ostracized.”

  “That’s not untrue, though. But now I’m making some changes to myself so I can be welcomed into the fold of the cool.”

  “You don’t have to act like a jerk to find someone.”

  “Oh, really? Did Joan Jett sing a song called I Love Myself for Loving Nice Guys? You’re a musician, anyway. Women fawn all over musicians. And this jerk thing is already paying off. I’ve managed to schedule a tryst with someone after only my first time out in the field. And this girl is definitely drunken tryst material. I know because she has a lower-back tattoo.”

  “A lower-back tattoo? And this tells you all you need to know how?”

  “See, this is why I wanted us to meet outside.” I spread out my arms like Alexander the Great declaring all the world to be his. “Look around you. Despite the cold weather all the women on campus are dressing so that their lower-back tattoos are on display. You’ve seen them before. So-called tribal art. Asian characters. Lower back tattooed women are the true soulless drones of womankind. The stormtroopers. The pawns. Seizing upon the zeitgeist like never before, these women proudly show off their tramp stamps as a semiotic signal that they’ve consigned themselves into constantly being used and abused by drunken frat boys and engaging in a cycle of self-degradation on social media sites.

  “Now, the lower-back tattooed woman will attempt to justify her tribal art or Asian script by telling herself that such body decorations make her spiritual rather than merely serving as a bullseye for a frat boy’s money shot. But do you ever see Asian women walking around with love or peace written in English tattooed on their lower backs? Of course not, because Asian culture doesn’t dumb itself down so much so that any language different from its own suddenly becomes mystical.

  “And these tramp stamps are everywhere now. Women can’t wait to dig themselves into the societal sandbox of Western gender culture. There are so many more women playing in the shallow end of the pool than the deep one, that I’ve finally just decided to wade into the shallow end to score with Richelle who bears a tramp stamp.

  “And Richelle is just the beginning. I’ll have her on Friday night, and then that cutie Sabrina on Saturday night. I’m starting at R and working my way up to Z, so if you know any Xenas, Yolandas, or Zaras, let me know. Pretty soon I’m gonna have more notches carved into my bedpost than Mr. Zsasz has carved onto his body.

  “But Sabrina’s going to be my main girl, the put-upon one who complains about all of my boorish behavior to her Poor Platonic best friend who constantly consoles her while hoping in vain that she’ll eventually love him. And Sabrina will tell Poor Platonic how incredibility sweet he is right before she leaves him to answer my booty call. I’m making it happen. As soon as we’re done here, I’m heading to The Vault.”

  Seth looks at me like he were the surgeon from Batman and just undid the Joker’s bandages. “A part of me feels like I should shoot you with a tranquilizer gun. But deranged as you are right now, you’ve been galvanized into asking out Sabrina, so carry on. And while it’d be okay with her, you might want to stop name-dropping characters like Mr. Zsasz for when you’re seducing Xenobia and Zarana or whatever the hell you just said.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m always on my guard when I’m out hunting prey. Oh yeah, before I forget, when we meet Richelle and Briley, you need to call me Clyde.”

  Seth rolls his eyes. “As in the Pac-Man ghost?”

  “As in Shadow from Final Fantasy VI, because I come and go like the wind. I’m gonna show up at that party and commit some great feat like when Thor was in that drinking contest with the giants. The giants cheated and gave Thor a horn to drink from that was secretly connected to the sea. While Thor was unable to empty the horn, his chugging was so mighty that he wound up creating the tides. My drinking feats will achieve a similar legacy. I’ll appear out of nowhere, unasked and unknown, commit a great feat, bang Richelle, and disappear as quickly as I appeared.”

  “From teetotaler to binge drinker, huh? Speaking as a man with some experience in regards to alcohol endurance, I’d recommend you just go for Richelle and skip the drinking phase of your master plan.”

  “I have to establish my manliness to her before I have her. One time in seventh grade, a girl asked me to open a bottle for her and I couldn’t do it. Then she asked another guy who did have the strength. I failed her. I was not a man that day. To her or to myself. And let’s just say I wasn’t invited to the girl’s end of the school year party while the bottle opener was, and from what I understand, he got to feel her up in a closet.”

  “Funny how the smallest things can traumatize us the most,” says Seth.

  I walk into The Vault with a swagger in my step that’s only slightly toned down from the way Vince McMahon struts to the wrestling ring. Anti-karma is still acting in my favor, as not only is Sabrina working, but she’s also engaged with a male customer. This provides me with the opportunity to ask her out in front of someone else to further showcase my confidence. And if the customer is anything like I used to be, he’ll likely possess about as much courage as the Cowardly Lion, so I should have no trouble usurping the conversation from him.

  “How you doing, cutie?” I ask as I sit upon the counter. Sabrina will see this as a display of boldness. And her customer, a short fellow to begin with, will basically be looking at me via a low-angle shot, the better to be in awe of me.

  “This little cutie is doing fine,” says Sabrina. “It’s good to see you a
gain. I was beginning to think that you abandoned us.”

  “No one ever stays gone in the comic world,” I say.

  “That’s very true,” says Sabrina. “And usually I prefer it when dead characters don’t make sudden reappearances, but in your case I’ll make an exception.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I say.

  “Uncle Ben’s managed to stay dead,” says the customer. His tone is subtly hateful, clearly he resents my intrusion. Physically speaking, he’s more a caricature of a geek than an actual one. Small in stature and with big glasses he looks like he’s about to audition for Urkel on a rebooted Family Matters. Not helping is his red and yellow scarf, which I’m sure is licensed Harry Potter apparel. Defeat is in his eyes, for he knows he cannot best an alpha such as I. All he can do is say a prayer to St. Jude and hope for another shot at another girl sometime down the line. I almost pity him. Perhaps one day I could take the boy on as my apprentice, schooling him in the Way of the Asshole.

  “Don’t count Uncle Ben out yet,” I say, compelled to disagree with the guy in some way. “I’m sure he’ll eventually come back as part of some master plan by Norman Osborn. Now that Jason Todd and Bucky have both come back there aren’t many characters left to make shocking returns.”

  “Alex and I were just talking about all-time awful story arcs,” says Sabrina. “The return of Uncle Ben would have to be up there.” She bags Alex’s purchase.

  “Yeah,” says Alex. He takes the bag from Sabrina but can’t quite make up his mind if he should stay or go. “We decided on Armageddon 2001 for DC and the Clone Saga for Marvel because of their flip-flopping their resolutions.”

  “Good call,” I say. “Although the Ned Leeds wasn’t really the first Hobgoblin revelation is my all-time most hated Spidey story. Now, I could recount horrible storylines all day, but that would distract me from my real purpose.” I smile at Sabrina. “I came in here to ask you out, Sabrina. Will you go out with me this Saturday night?”