The Indifference League Read Online Free PDF Page A

anemic-white skin stands behind a lectern with a sticker-covered cash box on top. His thick black eyeshadow and wide-lapelled brown suit make him look like a bulimic Count Chocula. He says, “You sure you got the right place, cowboy?”
    â€œUm, pretty sure, yeah,” says Mr. Nice Guy.
    Count Chocula extends an open palm and says, “Then it’s a ten-dollar cover, Mr. Breeder.”
    Mr. Breeder? Does he think he knows me from somewhere? Maybe I look like one of the regulars.
    Mr. Nice Guy hands over two fives and finds a seat near the stage. He glances at his Super G Digital Athletic Chronometer. 11:11 p.m. Why do they have to start these things so late? he wonders. Normally, he would be in bed by now.
    The atmosphere reminds him of the armpit-and-cheap-cigar-scented strip clubs that Psycho Superstar used to drag him into, but there is also something very different about this place. For one thing, everyone looks like they’re attending a Halloween party with prizes for the weirdest and most revealing costumes.
    The woman sitting beside him is dressed in a black latex Wendy O. Williams catsuit, with her Betty-and-Veronica-sized silicone breasts rammed into a pair of transparent plastic cones. Her companion is completely naked, save for a pair of tight satin short shorts and red electrical tape X s over the nipples of her tiny breasts.
    With his orange T-shirt, Levi’s jeans, and wide-open mouth, Mr. Nice Guy stands out in this crowd like a nuclear detonation; he only knows about Wendy O. Williams because Miss Demeanor once gave a book report in English class about a volume called The Wild Women of Punk Rock . Or something like that.
    I do NOT look like one of the regulars.
    Both of the strange women frown at Mr. Nice Guy as if the world’s biggest zit has just burst in the centre of his forehead.
    â€œBuy a magazine, dude!” the Wendy O. Williams clone barks in a husky voice.
    â€œOr get a hooker!” Electrical-Tape-Nipples grunts.
    â€œSorry,” he says. He didn’t mean to stare.
    Count Chocula strides out onto the elevated, half-circle stage, and brays, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Butches and Bitches, Pitchers and Catchers and Naughty Children of All Ages, PLEEEEEEeeeeeEEEASE put your HANDS TOGETHER, forRRR … PUSSY … PURRRrrrrRRRRR-FECTION!”
    He steps aside, and the noise from the costumed crowd is thunderous as a woman in a cat outfit springs onto the stage on all fours. As she rises to her feet, spiralling like a ballerina to the throbbing music, Mr. Nice Guy realizes that she’s not dressed as a cat, but her naked body is painted like one. His penis extends into the right leg of his Levi’s.
    Pussy Purr-fection has the sort of long, sinewy legs that Mr. Nice Guy has always admired, and the brown body paint and white leopard spots just accentuate her tapered thighs and angular calf muscles. A burlap tail swings back and forth from her hard round behind, and more cat-spots run along her spine and speckle her muscular back. Triangular cat ears are pinned into her long black hair.
    When she spins around, Mr. Nice Guy’s eyes fixate on the large white spot painted over her pubic mound, then on the splotches of white over the nipples of her undulating breasts. It takes a moment for him to realize that the face behind the eyeliner-penciled cat whiskers is Miss Demeanor’s.
    Despite his shock at seeing her onstage, her catlike stretching and clawing causes his shaft to grow even larger, to throb like the pulsing dance music that rattles the room.
    She retreats behind the black curtains to wild cheering and applause.
    Soon after Count Chocula has returned to announce the next act, Miss Demeanor appears beside Mr. Nice Guy’s table. He can see the goosebumps on her skin beneath the brown paint and white spots. Against the cool, smoky air, her whitewashed nipples stick out like .22 calibre bullets, the areolas wrinkled and contracted.
    â€œHey,