[Overview] [Act 1, Scene 5] [Act 2, Scene 7]
Noon, Wedding Day
Nathan’s grabbing me by the hand and pulling me down the aisle.
“C’mon,” he says, “gotta get this over with fast.”
Needless to say, the wedding guests are looking at us more than confused. Honestly, I don’t even register most of what’s going on at this point. After Nate’s dumb-ass bachelor party, which lasted until the sun came up, it’s a miracle I’m even functioning as much as do. My head’s in the death-pinch of a nasty migraine, and a stale, rotten taste covers my tongue like the pelt of that animal that surely crawled down my throat to die. Fucking hangovers. Never again, I tell myself. Never a-fucking-gain.
So now I’m standing at the altar, and that old man with ashtrays for glasses looks at me.
“Are you all right, my son,” he says, holding his bible closer to he chest. I do feel like I’m about the breath out smoke and burst into flames, if the tickling sensation on my skin is any indication of my current state. The demon called alcohol hath possesseth me.
“Yeah, father,” I say—well, more like croak with a broken voice than actually forming human-language kind of words. “All’s good. Just excited, is all.”
Nathan stands next to me, his tux anything but straight or in order. His unwashed hair somehow manages to look even more dirty and knotted. What an idiot. Almost made me be late to my own fucking wedding. He looks at me with concern, his eyes shifting nervously left and right. An itch on his arm, which he’s working on with his filthy fingernails rubbing through the tux jacket, tells me that something’s wrong.
What the fuck happened last night?
“Nate, buddy,” I say, “what’s the issue, man?”
“Seriously, man,” he replays harshly. “Like it’s no fucking—“
The priest clears his throat with a cough.
Nathan lowers his voice, whispers, “—no big deal that we’re late for the drop off.”
“The drop off?”
“Yeah, man. Two kay-gee in the case, meant to be dropped by ten?”
“Fuck!” All the fucking guests are looking at us, and all chatter instantly dies down. Only the echo of my typical vocalization of my memory being jerked back to reality remains in the small church. Somewhere, some angels are covering their ears right now.
I pull that little bastard close to me by his tux. My eyes burn into his with all the hate I can muster. Angry, like a donkey being kicked in the balls, but forcing my voice to stay low, which, really, makes me sound like an idiot, I say, “What in the name God All-the-fucking-mighty is the matter with you? Why didn’t you set a goddamn alarm or some such shit? You little piece of god-forsaken, worthless, brain-dead, utterly wasted—“
The sound of all guests standing up at once.
The priest clears his throat, again.
Nathan signals me with his head to look down the aisle.
I let go of that little runt, straighten my own get-up, and put on my best smile despite my ruin of a face—what with the dark rings under my eyes and the unkempt hair and the stink of cheap booze pouring out of every hole in my body.
And there she is.
My wife-to-be, Sarah. Dressed in a beige dress hanging loosely off her shoulders. And with a pair of tits I did not know she has. Must have stuffed her bra or something. Not that I’d complain or anything.
Her dad is walking her down the aisle. That old man can barely put one foot before the next. Never really got to know the man. And by the looks of it, there’s not much of a point, anyways. He has some kind of condition, making his bones go weak and organs go lazy. That, or he’s just a drunk.
He gives away his daughter to me, and I take Sarah’s hand. She’s wearing a vail, and I can’t see much of her face. But I don’t have to see her face to know that she’s pissed off, by the way she’s the grabbing my hand.
As I lead her up to the alter, I glimpse something over her shoulder. Someone, rather. Like a demon from my past coming back to haunt me.
There, in the very last row, sits that awful piece of shit woman I used to call mother. What the fuck is she doing here? Sarah notices me being distracted, and even through the vail, I can see her eyes wanting to stab me to death right now.
“Sorry,” I mouth.
“Fuck you,” she whispers a little too loud.
By now, the priest has given up on this being a happy occasion.
He begins his speech about the holiness of wedlock, and the unity, and with God and all that stuff and then some.
What the fuck is that woman doing here? She’s left me to fend for myself when I was a little boy—left me with that monster—and now she thinks she can just show up here uninvited?
That old fuck coughs again.
I say, “What?”
My eyes meet Sarah’s. When did she take the vail off? Holy hell, that woman is mad. Makeup is already running with the few tears building up in her eyes—but not the kind that indicate happiness. No. She’s livid.
Again, the priest says, “Do you, Mitchell Riley Jr”—I hate that name—“take this woman, Sarah Robertson as your lawfully wedded wife—“
“I do, father. I love this woman. I don’t want to wait anymore.” Maybe being all hot-headed romantic can defuse this situation. Between the wife of my dead father showing up, and a case full of drugs already late for delivery, I don’t really have the time or nerve to deal with an upset wife of my own.
Hey, what do you know, it actually works.
She smiles, anyways.
Now comes the part where she has to commit, and she’s doing the same hastily stunt I just pulled, and the guests all gasp and sigh and are happy.
How fucking romantic.
“You may now kiss—“
I pull that woman right over and lean in for one kiss to remember this day by. Cheering and clapping, and everyone’s happy now.
I walk down the aisle with Sarah, and say to her, “Gotta hurry. Your brother got us in a bit of a situation.
“But,” I say before she can interrupt, “we take care of this, and it’ll be the best honeymoon you can ever imagine.”
We’re almost at the door, and there’s no sign of my mother anymore. Good. She’s gone. Bitch better not stick around, or I might do to her what I did to—
“What are you talking about?” Sarah interrupts my train of thought. That very moment, Nathan comes running after, and out the door with, us.
I say, “Nate here got us a job. Easy as pie. Drop of a case at a bar not far from here, and get a big payout for it.”
“Yeah,” we both say.
“What’s in the case?” she asks.
Nathan hesitates. Sarah never liked him dealing with drugs. Same thing goes for me and my dealing in drugs, by the way.
“Two kilograms of cocaine.” There, I said it.
Nathan hits my shoulder, pointing with his head at the guests coming out of the church after us. “Dude. Easy.”
Sarah’s not sure how to react. Or, more likely, knows exactly how she wants to react, but isn’t sure if she should right here, right now.
“Listen, babe. We do that, and we can do all that fancy stuff you wanted to do. Even have a drink from the minibar in the hotel bed.”
“Can’t Nathan go by himself? We have to stay for the reception.”
“Fuck the reception. Let’s just fuck off and get this over with. The faster it’s done, the faster we’re on our way to heaven!” Better not tell her about how late we’re already for the drop off.
Fucking Nathan, really. Setting an alarm was all he had to do.
I look deep into her eyes, do that little thing where I lean my head to the side and smile with a bit of teeth showing. Works every time I want sex but she’s too tired or whatever.
And it works here, too. God, I got a good handle on that woman. Not that I don’t love her or anything, but growing up the way I did, things usually are never about happy feelings and emotional connections and shit. But at least she thinks I’m some sort of romantic nice guy.
I can see in her face that she’s thinking about it.
A long moment passes.
“Fine,” she says. “We have to mingle for a bit, or Barb will kill me. But the second everyone’s distracted by the booze, we get out of here.”
“Awesome,” says Nate all excited. I want to punch him in the face and break his ugly nose.
Sarah’s getting more into the idea by the minute. Something about this whole idea of us taking off early to do something so very dangerous and illegal really turns her on. I know that, because it turns me on, too. If nothing else, the sexual tension between me and her has always been top–if that’s not the best reason to marry, then I don’t know what is.
After cutting the cake for the amusement of the guests (most of which I don’t even know by name), she turns to me while smiling towards a camera, whispering, “I can’t believe I’m running away from my own wedding party and sell drugs.” She says it a little to excited—that’s my girl.
But let’s not lose our heads over this. “Easy now. Not selling. Just dropping off.”
People are gathered all around us and are already busy with the bar set up just outside the church under a tent. A few people come up and congratulate the lucky couple. Whatever. Her step-mom is giving me the stink-eye (as she usually does). No sign of my own excuse for a mother. Great. Can’t handle that bitch right now, or I might just end up killing her, too.
If you read the behind the scenes post on this one, you might have notices that I did go a slightly different direction. Mitch is being the Impostor by pretending to actually care for Sarah as a human being. Still, I hinted at some of the ideas I had come up with, anyways.
What do you think? This will conclude the first act, and you can expect things to get even crazier, weirder, more dangerous, and hopefully dramatically funny.
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One thought on “The Honeymoon; Act 1, Scene 6 — Mitch Is Committed”
Your writing skills are excellent. This is refreshing look into an alternate wedding universe. There are but a few minor grammatical mistakes, or the absence of words. Judging from this, and other sample chapters I am convinced your novel will be a very good read. Cheers!