The journey was a few minutes in when a glint of light shone into his peripheral vision, a blue laser of sorts, breaking his concentration and getting him to focus off the trail. The light hit him again, almost on purpose, like a kid in high school shining a pointer into the teacher’s eye. He held his hand up to shield himself from this sudden intrusion, and looked out into the dark forest, hearing a strange beat emanating from it. It had a familiar, nostalgic sound to it, and after much squinting and deliberating, he swore he could see people dancing through the trees. Was this a secret stage or a private party? Was someone giving him the invite by shining a laser at him to get his attention? Looking at the line of people walking by him, which consisted of an amazingly uninteresting group of Plain Janes, he decided to follow the light through the woods and see what was going on.
The path had turned to underbrush, snapping and snagging his pants as he clawed through the trees, and he was quickly regretting not finding a more suitable path through. He didn’t want to lose the location of it though, or become so high that he would give up trying to find it and settle with whoever he ran into, so he took his chances with the rough path. Branches snagged his hair and scratched his face, but the growing light beyond the trees called him forward, so forward he went. The lights grew more and more, and he could certainly see people dancing, and could certainly see and hear a stage at this point. The music was fast and saccharine, the sort of syrup that oozed out of speakers during the late 90s. Happy Hardcore. Greg absolutely hated happy hardcore, but absolutely loved the girls who listened to it. They were basically designed to be rubbed, massaged, and squeezed, their outfits made of soft fur, their skirts fluffy crinoline, their legs wrapped in soft colorful nylons, and their hair done up with massive, fluffy volume. And a plus, a BIG plus, was that these candy girls were the biggest pill monsters in the whole rave scene.
JACK. POT. He had the pick of the litter, and the pickings were good. And strangely enough, there wasn’t a single guy in sight. Things couldn’t possibly be better.
Greg was in heaven, and just at the right time too. His pills were kicking in full swing. He was confident that within a half hour or so, he’d manage to find a fellow partier who had gone a little overboard with their party prescriptions, and would offer her solace in his warm tent for the night. ‘Solace’ meant a massage, some sweet talk, then straight down to business. The girl would either be unconscious or swimming within some strange spiritual construct within her brain at this point, either situations were favorable for Greg.
Greg headed out in midst of the girls dancing, their outfits lit up by the random laser and lights shone around the area, timed in sync with the syrupy high pitched lyrics of the happy house music blaring out of the wall of speakers. Every girl he passed had definitely put a lot of effort into their outfits, little details like pom poms, ribbons tied into cute little bows, everything that he loved seeing on these girls. One girl in particular, clad in a costume reminiscent of a pink kitten, was dancing feverishly in front of him. She stomped her feet and swung her hips, the thick fur pile dancing and fluffing around with every movement, the pom poms on her legwarmers bouncing and ricocheting against each other. She nodded and bobbed her head, the big fluffball surrounding it tapering off into long fur bands - which turned into mittens, keeping her hands warm in this chilly mountain air. The sparkling white fur trim stick out all around the front, creating a thick fluffy tunnel in the middle of the pink fur mountain. He especially appreciated the pointed ears on the top, and he couldn't contain his excitement any longer.
He sidled up to her, doing his best to match her rhythm.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he asked, hoping to see pupils the size of quarters staring back at him. Instead, he could only see the side of her hood - a clear indication that she couldn’t hear him over the thud of the beat. He started dancing closer, exercising caution, as her pawed hands were in danger of smashing him in the face.