If you can't beat them...

A couple of neighbours try to gate crash a party after being shunned, only to find their revenge plans frozen out.

      Bob and May, an American couple in their late 30’s sit together, but at opposite ends on their sofa, both activating the reclining mode that lifted their chubby feet somewhere almost as high as their heads. It was lucky their massive television was mounted on the wall, otherwise odd, fluff-covered socks would have obscured their view. At each end of the sofa was a small coffee table, on which perched beer cans at arm’s reach, some full some empty. They each drank from one while ‘Jeopardy!’ reached its thrilling climax on the screen. Unfortunately the loud party music from next door was making it very difficult to hear the critical questions.                         

“May, I can’t hear what they’re saying?” said Bob, irritated. ”Turn it up a bit.”                                                               

May extracted the remote control from somewhere beneath her meaty buttocks and pointed it at the television. The volume increased, but the bass from the music next door managed to cut through everything.                        

“That’s a bit better, but I still can’t hear Alex properly,” said Bob.    

May drained her can and belched loudly.

  “We should have been invited. It’s the neighbours, for heaven’s sake. They came to our barbecue in the summer.”

Bob drained his can and belched too.                          

  “You know, May, you’re right. I say let’s gate crash that party. See if they have the balls to kick us out.”

   They both added their empty beer cans to the piles on the side tables.           

“It’s a costume party, Bob, we ain’t got nothing to wear,” grumbled May. 

Bob thought for a moment. “We don’t have to actually go to the party, we can just sneak in the back door and steal some booze, maybe some food and then come home. That’ll piss ‘em off.”        

      “Great idea,” said May, excitedly, “let’s go and get camouflaged, you know, put dirt on our faces, sneak in like spies!”                         

      “I knew there was a reason I married you! Let’s go over the garden fence. We can use stealth across the garden like special forces.”

Twenty minutes later, Bob and May were dressed in dark trousers and jumpers and had smeared their faces with mud from the garden border. Their eyes were vivid white in contrast and they wore head torches that shone dancing beams over the house wall and fence. Bob stood on a box and peeked over the fence.        

“It’s all clear, May. Right, girl, I’ll get you over first then I’ll climb over after.”                                                                              

Bob bent and cupped his hands together for May to put her foot in, ready to lift her up and over.

“You ready, May? On the count of three. One, two, three!"                    

Bob propelled May firmly upwards by her foot while she pulled herself from the top edge and watched as she tumbled over the fence and into the dark. He heard the sound of breaking twigs as she landed in a bush.

      Bob peered over and caught her face in his head torch. “You all right my love?”                                                                         

      She groaned. “Yes, honey. I don’t think anything is broken apart from this gnome. It’s all clear. Come over."

Bob lined up in front of the wooden box and ran at it, catching his foot on the edge and smacking square against the fence panel. He desperately grabbed the top of the fence to lift himself, feet peddling to get a hold on the panel but ended up clinging flatly against it. The wood began to crack and then parted from the posts at each side. As if in slow motion, the panel, with Bob holding on for dear life, fell forwards into the garden with a muffled ‘whump’. He rolled off and looked around for sympathy, but May was not there. He squinted to see her head torch beam squiggling like a fire hose further up the grassy slope that lead to the house.

May hissed. “Pssst! Over here. Look what I found!”

Bob staggered up the slope to find her, nearly bumping into a drunken Napoleon Bonaparte taking a piss against a tree. May was stood next to a large ice sculpture of Venus and had removed her head torch as the lights from the house made it unnecessary.   Bob tried to catch his breath.                                   

“What is it? Looks like a big ice cube. Like a statue of something.” 

“It’s a Vodka fountain, Hun. Look, you turn on the tap and it dribbles down over the ice,” said May, whispering. 

She turned the tap on a near empty bottle at the top of the sculpture and it started to drizzle down the ice, over Venus’s shapely body.                        

Bob was all of a tizzy. “Quick! Where are the glasses? I can’t see any.”              

“We’ll have to drink it straight from the ice,” said May, looking for the best place to start.

Bob threw off his head torch. 

They bent over either side of the sculpture, Bob on the front and May on the back, and started slurping the vodka. After a minute the bottle was empty.

  Bob tried to speak. 

“May, thi thwink we have a phoblem.” His tongue was stuck firmly on Venus’s frozen left breast.                                                          

“May was in a similar predicament, stuck to Venus’s right buttock. “Thi can’t thet my ton aff the iceth, Bob.”

Bob spoke, in some discomfort. “Whath we gun do, May?” He tried to scrape his tongue off the ice with his fingers but it didn’t work.                       

“Thi dunno Bob. Getz um help, kikly,” mumbled May.

      They both shouted for help, or ‘thelp’ but the music from the party drowned their voices.

“Ith no good, May, thez no wun here. I got teh pull my tun aff the eith,” sobbed Bob. 

“Oh! My luff, be caful,” she replied. Bob braced himself.       

      “Hew wee go. Athter thwee. One, Doo, Thwee..!”

He screamed in agony, crawling in front of May with his mouth covered in blood, tongue stripped raw.                               

      “Ahl be bath luff wuth thum hep”.   

Bob rose and staggered towards the house, stumbling into a huge open plan kitchen where the guests were all in costume trying to talk above the music. Bob headed towards the kitchen sink, bumping past a couple dressed as Bonnie and Clyde. 

Bonnie grabbed Clyde’s elbow. “Oh! That’s just fabulous, Henry.”     ”

      “What’s he supposed to be?” said Clyde.                                   

“It’s the Walking Dead! You know, he’s a zombie!” She patted Bob on the back as he staggered past.                                        

“That’s one of my favourite’s so far. Best costume I’ve seen all night,” said Clyde.                                                                

      Bob was in reach of the tap to get some warm water when a very drunk hostess, dressed as Catwoman accosted him.                      

      “Bob? Is that you? I didn’t know Max had invited you, but thanks for coming. Where’s May? I just love your costume. Is that fake blood? It looks really authentic.”                                            

      Bob pointed to his mouth. “Ith my tongue, Thylvia. I got it stuck on the iceth. I need some warter to hep May.”                               

She had no idea what he said.           

“That’s nice dear. Help yourself to nibbles. I need to get more wine. Max is around somewhere dressed as Buzz Lightyear.” With that she wobbled away.        

Bob took a plastic cup and filled it with warm water. On his back way to the door, another drunk guest dressed as a zombie approached and tried to be friendly.                                         

      “Hey! Another zombie dude. Looks like you just ate someone, man. Hey! Can we do a selfie?”                                                           

The zombie took out his phone, put his arm around Bob and snapped a photo.                                                                           

   “Thanks, man!”                                                         

“Yur welbcum, muttered Bob.                                              

Bob staggered off, blood dripping down his clothes. He heard a cheer near the front door and pushed through a small crowd to see May staggering in holding a large block of ice still stuck to her face. Venus’s buttock. She had smashed the vodka sculpture. May pushed past another couple dressed as Lizzie Borden and Hannibal Lecter.     “That’s just genius. So simple,” said Lecter.                               

“I don’t get it. What has she come as?” said Borden.                

   “Titanic, of course!” said Lecter.                             

      “Oh! The iceberg! That’s awesome, so artistic and ironic. It’s like she’s kissing his frozen face. Way better than snow-covered DiCaprio over by the bar.”                     

May staggered up to Bob where he helped her over to the sink. He looked carefully at her face, stuck to the ice.     

      “Wath happened?” he asked.                                               

“I cudn’t wait tho I smessed it with a wock,” she cried.

He used the cup and poured water over the area joining her tongue and the ice until it fell into the sink with a thud. May drank the rest of the cup’s contents and spat out the pink, blood-tinged water. Her tongue was swollen and very pink.

      “Thath better. Leth go and get a puppa dink my luth.”           

      “I’ll put a few botthles of wine in my pocket and some thandwithes. Then thi thnk we’d betha go the huthpithal,” smiled Bob.                            

May kissed Bob on the cheek, took him by the hand and led him into the throng of party guests, bumping past a confused Napoleon.