(Rated M for Mature)
Micky mouse woke up today and the Disney-dollar went down again. He went to the corner deli to cop a pack of cigarettes which were five bux yesterday but today cost twelve.
“What gives?” Micky asks the clerk but all he got in response was a shrug and that old-fashioned saying about how, “It’s the economy, it fluctuates,” because nothing is stable in Disneyland.
As a child Micky could spend years enjoying the amusement park celebration with a smiling face and a sense that the feeling of now could last forever. It was an immortal feeling that turned out to be rather finite. Little by little the economy flipped and flopped and every other year became yearly, then monthly. Finally everyday it’s a new economy.
Micky heads back to the street with his operation-mask and ski-goggles, avoiding both the brutally damaging lung toxins of the declining ozone as well as the latest viral pandemic. He pulls out his cell and gives his boy-toy Goofy a ring, “Heyya Goof, you hittin’ that uptown party tonight?”
“A yessir Micky, what about you?” (Goofy voice)
“I wanna drop by with my things, smoke a joint or something before we head out.”
Goofy agrees but with reluctance in his voice. Micky throws on his headphones; “Come to Daddy (Little Lord Faulteroy Mix)” by the Aphex Twins. He heads to the subway down the street, skipping his way through early evening human congestion, the smoke, and clutter of an urban jungle on his way to Goofy. He’s at Goofy’s in fifteen minutes and they go to town on each other for about another twenty, and then after a short nap they light a fat joint.
“Oh I don’t know Mick, you pop up, we party, you disappear for a week. Some other cartoon rings you on your cell and I disappear to you. What gives?” remarks Goofy as he passes the joint.
Micky takes a long pensive hit before he responds, “You gonna start with this shit again? Can’t we just have fun – enjoy the moment – party and shit?”
“I wanna enjoy the moment too Mick but I need more. This—this isn’t enough anymore.”
“I told you when we started I can’t be tied down right now. There’s just way too much going on in society today. I need to escape,” Micky stammers as he passes the blunt back to Goofy, hops from he bed and starts gathering his wardrobe.
“I wanna be to this function by nine. Can I use your shower? If not I can head home now,” Micky proclaims while looking at the bedroom door on the opposite side of the bed.
Goofy takes a long drag and then just holds the blunt between his lips as he exhales, starring into the mirror at the foot of his bed with eyes swelling with tears.
Micky waits for a few seconds and then says, “I’ll call a ride-share to bring me back to my apartment,” as he grabs his things and heads to the door. Before walking out, Micky turns back to Goofy, who still stares at the mirror as he smokes. “I’ll call you later,” Micky says as he turns and storms out the door, and the storm starts to pour in Goofy’s room.
Micky drops two speedy pills and zooms away in a Poober, operation mask on. He’s home in what feels like a jiff, hops out the cab and back into his generic red-brick building. Micky fires up to the sixth floor apartment and readies himself for a night of forgetful intoxication, and purge. He grabs some more alcohol from the liquor store across the street. On his way to the party he takes another few colorful pills, hops in another Poober, and connects his phone to the sound system. Eprom – “Beats of Babylon” on the way to the party.
By the time he makes it to his destination the pills have kicked in. Everything in slow motion like underwater. Micky’s in the zone. He looks to the top of the cool, modernist, grayish building. He can hear the music loud and clear, and can see the party bumping from here, so far from the mountain top. He follows an old cat woman through the front door without a buzz, and hops into the old fashioned hotel-styled elevator, manned by a happy little monkey. The trip up is slow. Micky looks at his watch, and then at old cat woman. He watches her for half the trip. She behaves as if she’s the only one in the elevator, and doesn’t look back at him once. She exists nice and slowly at her stop. Now that he’s alone to contemplate he pops another colored pill.
At the top floor the elevator doors open to a fancy apartment full of guests, from the elevator to the balcony. The DJ plays Venetian Snares as cartoon guests from around the land of Disney rave hard, and sweat the room to humidity. Some guests wear fancy subzero/scorpion styled masks despite the high-tech ventilative air conditioning units lining the ceiling. Micky goes commando, throwing his mask into his jacket pocket and charging to the dance-floor with ecstatic drug energy.
After dancing and sweating for what felt like hours Micky finally picks out a familiar face from the crowd. “Donald Duck,” he harshly grunts as the duckling comes prancing over for a hug and kiss on the cheek.
“Heya Micky, where’s the boy toy?” Duck asks.
Micky continues to dance hard, rolls his eyes, and then winks back at Donald. The song switches to “Don’t Mug Yourself” by the Streets and the two toons do the twist. They begin swinging each other in circles and when Donald lets go, Micky spins in place on his own, tossing a pill to the ceiling and then catching it on his tongue when it returns. When Micky’s done spinning the two come together close. Micky passes Duck the pill in a kiss. Duck gulps it down by surprise as the song changes again.
“Booty-whop” by Big Freeda plays. That’s Donald’s song. He makes that tail feather clap to the rhythm. Another few drinks and the two are out on the streets again, “Booty-whop” stuck in Micky’s head since they left the party.
They stop by a dollar pizza joint on the way to Duck’s place. As Micky digs into his red-leather jacket to grab his wallet he comes across two old pills. After paying the gopher pizzaiolo they enter a sterilized pod-booth to have a seat, remove their masks and enjoy their pizza. Donald must have been starving because he’s almost finished before Micky manages to go back in his pocket and pluck out those pills. He lays them on the table.
“Oh what ya got there Mick?” Duck qwaks.
“Not sure,” Micky responds, though he knows they were for he and Goofy to share together.
“Something special I imagine. Wanna take a ride?” Micky asks as he looks back at Donald. Duck stares back with a bit of confusion, wondering what exactly he means about taking a ride.
“Uh, I don’t know Mick. I mean how do we know they’re safe?” Responds Duck.
“Well only one way to find out,” Micky responds, suddenly overwhelmed by thoughts of Goofy. He reaches out impulsively and grabs a pill, tossing it into his mouth. It lands at the back of his tongue. He swallows it with a big gulp of root beer.
What transspires from this point to fifteen minutes later will be a complete mesh of ambiguity in Micky’s memories. The last thing he’ll remember is a favorite song of his coming on the pizzaria radio, “Gente De Mierda” by PUTOCHINOMARICÓN. Duck watched as the stars took control of Micky’s eyes, with nothing more than sugar-sprinkle rainbows from his mouth every-time he tries to speak. Nothing he says is comprehensible to Donald so Donald takes the second pill hoping for some clarity. Of course, that’s the last thing he’ll remember before fifteen minutes later, when the toons find themselves fleeing a six-foot robotic police rhino who carries a black baton in the left hand, and a pistol in the other, firing off down a crowded ally shouting “Freeze you faggots,” as conversing college kids, and homeless folks hanging by the flame lit trash cans nonchalantly jump to the sides of the ally into black bags of garbage.
Duck directs the two through a cracked upon door to the backside of a smokey gay-bar/club. Micky finds himself mesmerized by the beautiful crotch of the speedo-only, well-built Labrador on stage shaking his junk to old-fashioned house music. Duck grabs Micky by the collar and drags him along. The robotic rhino bursts through the back door with his pistol hand in the lead. He’s greeted with a riot of attendees who grab the gun from his hand and beat him on the head with his own baton. Micky and Duck dance their way through the main entrance and across the street threw a park. Micky slips on a puddle, loses grip with Duck, and plunges into a wild water kingdom of squids and shrimp shaking their bodies to the pulsing synths of Inner City, “Big Fun”. He joins the dance and manages to finish the whole song before noticing he can’t breath under water.
He flies out of the water with a splash hitting his head on the ceiling of a dark apartment living room. “Ouch,” he groans as he lands on a soft floor cushion. “I know this place,” Micky thinks to himself as rubs his thumping head for a moment, scanning his dark surroundings. The howling snore of Goofy in the next room confirms his speculation. He creeps in to see his boy toy fast asleep by a candle lit on the dresser at the foot of the bed.
“How sweet,” thinks Mickey; both the fact that Goofy took him in and how gently he sleeps. Micky leans over and gives the ole cow a kiss on the cheek, ever so gently. He tiptoes his way to the door, grabbing his mask from the door knob on his way out . Then while opening the door to exit a slight creek wakes Goofy.
“Micky?” Goofy moans. Micky now facing the exit once again freezes in his tracks. “I missed you tonight,” Goofy yawns. Micky turns back to notice goofy’s eyes still partially closed. “I’ll call you later Goof – thanks.” Micky bows his head and heads on out the room to the elevator which smells of urine. Micky cups his little mouse nose with both gloves on the way down. Once he’s made it to the ground level, he races straight out the door and to the street where he hails a Poober.
The ride home is surprisingly lonely. Micky hasn’t felt like this in a long time, drugs warn off and out of ammo. Tired, yet restless. He checks his text messages to see a few paragraphs from an angry Duck. It seems he lost him in the park. Messages to Goof confirm that Micky was lost in the wilderness. He now vaguely recalls waking from a zombified stupor in Goofy’s neighborhood. Goofy being the swell fella he is, takes Micky in fearing Micky’s a walking catastrophe in that state. “Sweet Goofy,” Micky remarks.
Back at his apartment, Micky cant seem to fall to sleep. He puts on the television. It’s a televangelist lion preaching about jumping ship and leaving Disneyland. Micky thinks he’d love to get away, and that if he did he’d take Goofy with him. His eyes droop as the program cuts to a commercial about the coming election and economic propaganda. “I’d rather jump ship,” he yawns as he fades off to dreamworld, and far away from Disneyland.
