Buzzfeed, Boys, Black Magic

leela don't know how to party

So Cody's party happened.

I expected there to have been more furries. There were two. One- no surprise- was Cody. He only removed his Sonic head once-when he greeted me at the door.

"Mary-Beth!" His forehead sweat glimmered in the smoky hallway light. "You actually came!"

I watched him grab my shoulder and pull me over the threshold of the shoebox duplex in which he and his roommate resided.

"Come on, there's some people you should meet."

He led me down a narrow corridor. I fixed my ears on the far-off growl of a saxophone and then- as we passed the open basement door- the pastel peals of 80s synth, and a saccharine soprano I recognized from my worst memories of 2012. I didn't know what to expect going into a pothead/furry party, but Carly Rae Jepson's latest album buzzing from an iPhone speaker was not how I sound-tracked the event in my mind. Before I could ask Cody why we couldn't pop open a ska playlist on Spotify, I found myself in a galley kitchen, sandwiched between the moron I knew in the Sonic suit, and a moron I did not know in a ratty orange fursuit. And all at once I was assaulted with the stench of skunky oregano.

"This is my roommate Ky," Cody gestured at the ratty orange fursuit, kneeling beside the oven, "and what's cooking is their famous lasagna." Cody leaned his Sonic head toward me, as if I could somehow read the expression on his face through the fabric. "A sativa strain, high THC, no CBD."

"Uh?" I watched Ky stand up and open the oven door.

"You take a slice of that on Friday, and you'll really hate Monday." Cody said, and Ky turned around with a foiled casserole dish in hand. I recoiled at the Garfield head that crowned Ky's fursuit. Tomato sauce stained the corners of its smirking mouth like blood dried on a vampire's lips.

"I'll keep that in mind," I backed into the hallway. "Who's the Carly Rae Jepson fan?"

"Good idea," Cody ran toward me. "Let's see what's happening in the down-below."

***

The first person I saw in the basement was Dr. Moreno, convulsing beneath a broken disco ball.

"I shouldn't invite the Doc to the shin-digs anymore," Cody ripped off one of his Sonic hands and disconnected his iPhone from its party speakers. "She could at least play Cyndi Lauper if she's gonna do 80's girl pop. Be authentic."

The synth stopped, and Dr. Moreno's bloodshot gaze fell on me.

"Leela!" Dr. Moreno smiled. There was purple lipstick on her teeth. "Look alive out there!" She then thrashed her arrhythmic hips to whatever music she must have still believed she heard. It was of paramount importance to me that I avoided further eye contact with Dr. Moreno. Avoiding eye contact with Dr. Moreno was more important than getting another paycheck at the Newton center, or holding down any job, or breathing. Avoiding eye contact with Dr. Moreno became, in that moment, a necessary requirement to continue to live. I turned my back to her, and glanced at the thirteen men scattered around the room. There were no other women. Just a television, a Nintendo console, a sagging couch, and plumes of smoke fogging the ceiling lights.

"A or B?" Cody jabbed my shoulder.

"What?" I glanced back at him.

"Pick one," he jabbed me again.

"B?" I said.

"Good choice." He fumbled with the iPhone, reattached it to the speakers, and slipped on his Sonic hand. And then the song began. A drum roll, and a squeaky, aggressively-adolescent male voice: GO-GO-GO, GO-GO-GO, GO-GO.