Strange Yarns

NEW BOOK - KILLER PARTY

Hey Yarnballs, 

I'M BACK FROM THE DEAD!!! Well, I'm back from the rotted place I've been slumbering... I can never really die ever since I made that pact with that demon. So, I've been busy writing a brand new book. While it doesn't take place in Hilltop, I think you'll find my ravenous glee at carnage and blood thirsty appetite for killing your favourite characters is still in check. 

The tale is as old as time. A bunch of super sexy teenagers go to the last house party of their high school careers and wisely decide NOT to summon the the spirit of an evil BIATCH that disappeared the year before... just kidding, that's exactly what they do... and get TOTAL INSANITY ENSUES. 

I have the first 8 chapters already posted and below is a sample, a taster if you will, an amuse bouche, which is French for amusing bouche... at least I think it is. 

Let's make Killer Party the biggest party on Wattpad. Invite all your friends... I promise they'll all survive... but you know my promises are about as useful as a 100 day old corpse. 

KILLER PARTY 

CHAPTER 1 

Christophe Bailey's house parties were unlike any other experienced by normal humans. Normal high school house parties can run the gamut. There's the sad three friender in a tired basement. Then there's wild nights in the suburbs that ends with the cops shutting it down and expensive repairs and stain removals. Christophe's parties weren't just in another league, they were in another sport played by some absurd alien race.

Last year Christophe and a few fellow classmates skinny dipped in a twenty person Jacuzzi he filled with strawberry zinfandel. Armed only with oversized novelty straws, the pool had been entirely drunk by three a.m.

But what really made these parties so outrageous came down to four factors:

The first is that Christophe was rich. The richest kid in Beachwood, which in turn is the most wealthy zip code on the West Coast.

The second factor, which granted was on off shoot of the first factor, was the Bailey Estate itself. It made the other palaces and mansions of Beachwood look like high end dog houses. Designed by famed museum architect and suspected occultist Koji Ito, the structure was a two-hundred and twenty million dollar mess of glass Jenga blocks girdled by bespoke curved wood beams. It jutted straight out from a cliff face one-hundred feet above the Pacific Ocean. There's was an indoor and an outdoor pool. Hot tubs of varying hotness. A cold plunge. A steam room. Two saunas. A swim up bar. A beach volley ball court. A secret grotto; and that was just the patio.

The great room, which was a three story glass cube with a mirrored ceiling was where Christophe would import the world's hottest DJ's and throw his raves. The estate could not only hold every kid from the elite Beachwood Academy, but also Crescent School, Reagan High, and a few other prestigious academic institutions in neighbouring counties.

The third factor was that Christophe's parents were global bankers of some nefarious variety and spent nearly all their time in Beijing, Moscow, and Dubai. This meant the estate was Christophe's and Christophe's alone to do with as he pleased. And what this seventeen year old with absolutely no limitations or supervision pleased informed to the fourth factor...

Christophe desired the bacchanal, hedonistic, debaucherous, hilarious, and absurd. He tended to these desires with a creative gusto that sometimes defied logic. But what he cherished most was attention. Not only from every student at his school, but also from his three million followers on his YouTube channel, his four million followers on Tik Tok, and his five million followers on Twitch. His most cherished moment was when his merch blew up after Machine Gun Kelly wore a shirt with his face on it on SNL.

At Christophe's parties the only thing prohibited was inhibition. Bottles and bags of unlimited anything. By one a.m, in the countless bedrooms, dark corners, and throbbing rave, the teenage Id had full rule the roost.

But tonight, at the last party before summer break, amongst the throngs of the wasted, hot, and horny, one student's thick hard on for life had been doused in ice.

11th grader, Dave Hudacock, had escaped the rave to stir up a cocktail of vodka and MDMA when he checked his phone. What he saw made his balls crawl into torso.

"Fuck you and your vicious fucking cruelty..." said the voice on Tik Tok.

The screen displayed a familiar face. That sophomore Bianca Temple. Dave had never spoken to Bianca. He thought she was weird. Dave exclusively spoke to the popular kids in his little clique, but Bianca had stood out amongst the beautiful teens of Beachwood with her lazy eye and non-designer ill-fitting Disney sweatshirts.

"Everyone knows, but no one does anything," Bianca live streamed, raw and hysterical, "But they'll know now."

Dave saw a blinding beam grow brighter behind Bianca. A train whistle cut through the phone's speakers.

"Fuck you, Ingrid Peltman! Fuck yo-"

Dave wanted to shout move, but before he could there was a scream, followed by a crunching and a spray of static, and then nothing. Then the Tik Tok looped.

Ingrid-Peltman-fuck-you-train-scream-smash looped and looped again. Red cups were put down. The oxygen left the room. Bianca's Tik-Tok-suicide popcorned everywhere, going Covid in real time. Within a minute half the party goers were glued to their phones, hypnotized by the tragic and captivating clip. DJ Great-Früt, sensing he was losing his crowd, discovered for himself what was killing his vibe and in turn he killed the music. It was under five minutes before the only sound in the the Bailey Estate was the cycle of Ingrid-Peltman-fuck-you-train-scream-smash. Every single bleary eye watched and then rewatched this girl they never took the time to know throw herself in front of a train.

Every single set of eyes except one.