My conversation with the axe-murderer at the Jenkins’ party was really quite awkward. I made excuses for my unchecked curiosity, asked about her victims and her preference for the axe. She wouldn’t talk. She was missing an entire arm. With some remaining important fingers she rolled the stem on her glass of wine. It soon felt like an interrogation and she returned to the couch with the other axe-murderers. They laughed it up.
By the indoor hot tub was a group of scantily clad Chinese water torturers reminiscing. Some suicide bombers walked to the bathroom together. They talked about later maybe getting together a game of volleyball.
I went to the kitchen and got a handful of party mix, pretzel sticks and peanuts mostly, and stood there by myself in the center of the room and discreetly transformed into my impression of Frankenstein. Everyone got a real kick out of that and their laughter grew steadily, fed off of itself, then closed in from all sides and swallowed me whole.— "Islands in The Black Night" by Zachary Schomburg