The Indifference League Read Online Free PDF

buddy,” she says. “Thanks for coming.”
    He glances down at the bulge in the right leg of his jeans. He didn’t come, but it was pretty close.
    â€œI half-expected you to bolt before the show even started,” she says.
    Don’t look shocked , he tells himself. Miss Demeanor loves to shock. Play it cool. Play it cool.
    â€œUm, nice show, yeah,” says Mr. Nice Guy. “Um, the little ears and the tail are nice touches.”
    â€œThanks!” she says. “You should see the flapper outfit I wear for Nostalgia Nights. The hem stops three inches above Hello Kitty.”
    Hello Kitty is Miss Demeanor’s nickname for her genitals. The first and only time that Mr. Nice Guy got a look at Hello Kitty, it was covered over by a triangle of thick, curly pubic hair. It was that one and only glimpse that established Mr. Nice Guy’s continuing preference for untrimmed pubes. Now Hello Kitty is as bald as a Mexican Hairless.
    â€œListen,” she says, wrinking her nose, causing her painted-on whiskers twitch, “It’s freezing in here. My nipples are about to freakin’ shatter .”
    He would like to offer to warm them with his hands, but Mr. Nice Guy would never say something like that. That’s the sort of thing that Jake would do, not him. He just nods in an understanding way.
    â€œI’m just going to pop into the back and change into my street clothes, okay? I won’t be long. Enjoy the show in the meantime.”
    *
    Mr. Nice Guy’s penis stands down from Red Alert Mode during Dame Edna Leathertongue’s performance; there is something disturbing to him about the aggression in her military-themed burlesque, although Electrical-Tape-Nipples and Wendy O. Williams seem to enjoy it.
    Mr. Nice Guy’s blood flows south once again, though, when Marilinn Munrow strides onto the stage. She steps over a fan mounted on the floor, and his jaw drops as her skirt blows up to reveal a thick brown bush.
    Right , thinks Mr. Nice Guy, Marilyn Monroe was really a brunette. Now that’s attention to detail.
    Unlike the real Marilyn, though, Ms. Munrow is in no hurry to push the fluttering skirt back down again. Mr. Nice Guy applauds enthusiastically.
    The Wendy O. Williams clone rolls her eyes at him and says, “Don’t get too excited, buddy. It’s a merkin.”
    â€œWhat?” Mr. Nice Guy shouts over the pounding music. “American?”
    Jeez , I know that Marilyn Monroe was American. And her name was really Norma Jean.
    â€œA merkin ,” Wendy O. says slowly. “A. Mer. Kin.”
    â€œUm, ahh … okay. Yeah. Thanks.”
    Wendy O. rolls her eyes again, and elbows Electrical-Tape-Nipples, who shakes her head.
    Mr. Nice Guy worries that maybe he’s been staring at Ms. Munrow’s hirsute crotch for an impolite amount of time when a bouncer with a dyed-blue Mowhawk appears from behind the stage and strides directly toward him. His eyes fixate on the lean biceps flexing beneath the blue-green tattoos, and only when the bouncer is a few paces from Mr. Nice Guy’s table does he notice the breasts swaying beneath the black muscle shirt.
    â€œHey, thanks for waiting,” Miss Demeanor says as she pulls up a chair beside him. “That body paint takes forever to wash off.”
    The flash of a stage strobe reveals that there are still traces of eyeliner-pencil whiskers on her cheeks. Faint streaks of white makeup remain overtop the tattoos on her arms. She didn’t have any tattoos the last time he saw her, except for the little Chinese symbol on her wrist, an over-publicized high-school graduation gift from Psycho Superstar. Now her shoulders and arms are covered in rose vines and barbed wire, which wind their way past a pink triangle, a yin-yang symbol, an Irish rose, a Wiccan pentacle, portraits of Betty Boop and Bettie Page.
    â€œSo,” she says, running her fingers through the strip of spiked blue hair that