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“You may kiss the bride,” the Elvis says to screen Art, and boy, do we kiss.
I should’ve been on the pill for that kiss alone. My tongue looks to be reaching Art’s spleen, not to mention all the lip biting and hands roaming. It’s a miracle I don’t take out Mr. Big—or that Art doesn’t pull out my boobs from the dress.
Fucking hell. This bit can’t be deleted. It’s way too important for when we deal with the green card peeps. It looks incredibly real.
When our screen selves finally pull apart, the strippers and Elvis cheer. Staring into my eyes, Art slurs something that sounds suspiciously like, “And now you’re mine, kislik.” Speaking of the word that’s now permanently written on his skin, the photos from the tattoo parlor are next—because “till death do us part” wasn’t permanent enough for drunk us. Once tattooed, it’s only logical that we go to a pet shop.
Which explains the furry beast I met earlier.
Art pauses the slideshow and arches his eyebrows at me.
“Oh, yeah, honey,” I say. “It looks like we’ve got ourselves a fur child. Congrats.”
I look around the room but don’t see the fur child in question, so I urge Art to continue with the video. What follows is ten minutes of the store owner explaining the care and maintenance of chinchillas, as well as Art buying the best carrier for air travel, then registering our new pet with the airline.
“You need his name?” he slurs into the phone before shifting his gaze to the fluffy creature. “Fluffer.”
Fluffer? Did Art not realize that’s what they call the person whose job it is to make a male porn star hard before the camera rolls?
Speaking of porn sets, the next set of images is of the room we woke up in, without any desserts.
“There’s a long video here,” Art says. “But don’t worry. This didn’t upload anywhere due to its size.”
Oh, God. If it’s what I think it is and he tried to upload it...
“Great, let’s see it.”
Exhaling through his teeth, Art presses play.
