![]() ![]() “Then tell him to shut the fuck up!” The stranger – a red-faced, stocky Brooklynite of indeterminate European ancestry – tried to pull his wrist back. He flinched away as I dropped my popcorn and snatched the stranger’s wrist, catching it before he made contact. The man behind us reached forward to shove at Vassily’s head. “YEAH! Barbecue that sucker!” Vassily called out in Ukrainian, bouncing in his seat. It was lost in the sudden shriek of the chestburster exploding, the cocooned woman screeching, the Marines on screen yelling, and the whoosh of a flamethrower. ![]() “SHHH.” The hissing behind us was louder, this time. Which is basically just spooge in a shell.” He made a face. “Vassily.” I stared fixedly at the screen, keeping my voice down. Before you know it, BAM, something’s rammed its dick right down your throat and is pumping you full of alien spooge.” “This is why you never let anything over five inches near your mouth, man. I flicked one into my mouth and caught it with a crunch. I didn’t reply, eating popcorn one kernel at a time. ![]() “Ohh… ohhh… here it comes.” Vassily, mumbling around a mouthful of popcorn, pointed at the screen with the straw of his soda. It was a week after the premier of Aliens, and we were watching it together for the third time. Two nights before Vyacheslav Nazrenko burned to death, Vassily and I were at the movies. “People will do anything, no matter how absurd, to avoid facing their own souls.” – C.G. ![]()
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