Read Online The Party by Christopher Pike - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Pike
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God,” Michael whispered. Moving quickly, Nick collected the gun and turned on the fallen thief. Seeing him coming, the guy frantically began to rip at the nylon over his face.
“Mike, don’t let him kill me!” he cried. “It’s me! It’s Kats!”
“Kats,” Michael said, disgusted. “I should have known.”
Carl Barber, better known as Kats, was a nineteenyearold loser. He had gone to Tabb High for five years, taken advanced pottery and Shop I, II, and III, and still hadn’t graduated. He’d had a lifelong dream of joining the marines, but without the diploma, they wouldn’t take him. He worked at the gas station up the street from Tabb High. He had oil under his fingernails a surgeon couldn’t have removed. Whenever kids from the school drove into the station—dozens of students cruised by every morning and afternoon—Kats got into a fight with them. Admittedly, Kats usually didn’t start the fights. He was one of those rare people that no one respected. Guys would pull into the fullservice area and tell him to dust their tires. According to Bubba—who took Kats about as seriously as everyone else but who nevertheless spent a fair amount of time in his company—Kats had been genetically cloned from Rodney Dangerfield. Nothing ever went his way, that was for sure.
“Stop, Nick,” Michael said. “I know this guy.”
Nick looked bewildered. He shook the weapon in his hand. “This is real, Mike. He was pointing it right at us.”
Michael came from behind the counter, furious. “So you hold us up with a real gun! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Kats grinned, his ugly teeth protruding from beneath his thin black mustache. It was not true, like some said, that he greased his hair and mustache with oil from the gas station, at least not intentionally. But it was a fact he was always running his hands through his hair even when he was laboring beneath filthy dripping heaps.
“I was just trying to give you boys a little scare.” Kats giggled. “I did, too. I saw the way you fumbled that cash register!”
Michael turned to Nick. “All right, go ahead and waste him.”
“Mike!” Kats cried, squirming in a pond of Miller Late.
Michael took a step closer. “I fumbled the drawer on purpose! I hit a button to call the police. It also trips an alarm in the homes of the owners. They’re all going to be here in minutes. What am I supposed to tell them?”
Kats tried to get up without cutting himself, brushing off scraps of glass knit together with torn beer labels. “Christ, Mike, what’s the big deal? The gun wasn’t loaded. It was just a prank.” He grinned again. Michael really wished he would stop. tHow’d you like my disguise? I knew you wouldn’t recognize me with that voice I was using. Got it off an old gangster movie I watched last night. What do you think of my piece, huh? Picked it up at the swap meet last Saturday. It fires a twentytwo—”
“Shut up,” Michael said wearily. “Just take your piece and get out of here before the police arrive. I don’t know what I’m going to tell them.” He tried to count the broken bottles. “But I do know one thing, you’re paying for this mess.”
Kats tried to snap the revolver from Nick’s hands, failed. Nick did not appear to trust Kats any more now than when Kats had been holding them at gunpoint, Nick gave the weapon to Michael, instead, who accepted it reluctantly. Michael had never understood why anyone made handguns. They were no good for hunting. They were only good for killing people. Had Kats been stowing it in his refrigerator, he wondered. The steel felt unreasonably cold in his hand. He was anxious to be rid of it.
“Why should I?” Kats said angrily. “It was this big lug here who tripped me. I ain’t paying for it, no way.”
“If you don’t,” Michael said flatly, “I’ll give the police your address.”
Kats saw he was serious, nodded. “OK, lighten up. I’ll pay for the beer. And I’ll
“Mike, don’t let him kill me!” he cried. “It’s me! It’s Kats!”
“Kats,” Michael said, disgusted. “I should have known.”
Carl Barber, better known as Kats, was a nineteenyearold loser. He had gone to Tabb High for five years, taken advanced pottery and Shop I, II, and III, and still hadn’t graduated. He’d had a lifelong dream of joining the marines, but without the diploma, they wouldn’t take him. He worked at the gas station up the street from Tabb High. He had oil under his fingernails a surgeon couldn’t have removed. Whenever kids from the school drove into the station—dozens of students cruised by every morning and afternoon—Kats got into a fight with them. Admittedly, Kats usually didn’t start the fights. He was one of those rare people that no one respected. Guys would pull into the fullservice area and tell him to dust their tires. According to Bubba—who took Kats about as seriously as everyone else but who nevertheless spent a fair amount of time in his company—Kats had been genetically cloned from Rodney Dangerfield. Nothing ever went his way, that was for sure.
“Stop, Nick,” Michael said. “I know this guy.”
Nick looked bewildered. He shook the weapon in his hand. “This is real, Mike. He was pointing it right at us.”
Michael came from behind the counter, furious. “So you hold us up with a real gun! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Kats grinned, his ugly teeth protruding from beneath his thin black mustache. It was not true, like some said, that he greased his hair and mustache with oil from the gas station, at least not intentionally. But it was a fact he was always running his hands through his hair even when he was laboring beneath filthy dripping heaps.
“I was just trying to give you boys a little scare.” Kats giggled. “I did, too. I saw the way you fumbled that cash register!”
Michael turned to Nick. “All right, go ahead and waste him.”
“Mike!” Kats cried, squirming in a pond of Miller Late.
Michael took a step closer. “I fumbled the drawer on purpose! I hit a button to call the police. It also trips an alarm in the homes of the owners. They’re all going to be here in minutes. What am I supposed to tell them?”
Kats tried to get up without cutting himself, brushing off scraps of glass knit together with torn beer labels. “Christ, Mike, what’s the big deal? The gun wasn’t loaded. It was just a prank.” He grinned again. Michael really wished he would stop. tHow’d you like my disguise? I knew you wouldn’t recognize me with that voice I was using. Got it off an old gangster movie I watched last night. What do you think of my piece, huh? Picked it up at the swap meet last Saturday. It fires a twentytwo—”
“Shut up,” Michael said wearily. “Just take your piece and get out of here before the police arrive. I don’t know what I’m going to tell them.” He tried to count the broken bottles. “But I do know one thing, you’re paying for this mess.”
Kats tried to snap the revolver from Nick’s hands, failed. Nick did not appear to trust Kats any more now than when Kats had been holding them at gunpoint, Nick gave the weapon to Michael, instead, who accepted it reluctantly. Michael had never understood why anyone made handguns. They were no good for hunting. They were only good for killing people. Had Kats been stowing it in his refrigerator, he wondered. The steel felt unreasonably cold in his hand. He was anxious to be rid of it.
“Why should I?” Kats said angrily. “It was this big lug here who tripped me. I ain’t paying for it, no way.”
“If you don’t,” Michael said flatly, “I’ll give the police your address.”
Kats saw he was serious, nodded. “OK, lighten up. I’ll pay for the beer. And I’ll
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