Gods & monsters

“Here´s a hundred bucks, kid,” I slip the blond surfer boy sitting at the desk next to mine at the back of the classroom, two fifties, on Thursday evening. “Supposing you´re man enough to do it, I mean”.
He looks at the bills, then to the back of head of the guy sitting right in front of him: Wager is, a hundred bucks are his, supposing he kisses the other guy´s nape during class.
“You want me to kiss his goddamn neck?,” he says. “That´s like, totally gross!”
“Of course it´s totally gross, you imbecile,” I tell him with a smirk. “But unemployed kids aiming at a post-grad still have tuition to pay for, so let´s get on with it shall we?”
He looks at me, smiles. Looks at the guy next to him, smiles too. Pats the dude in front of him on the shoulder with a sorry man, but it´s money-- stands up a little timidly, tilts his head sideways and whams, kisses the guy´s nape. Everyone laughs everyone´s asses off, girls are grossed out, freaked out, I leave the classroom and almost trip down on the watercooler because the whole place becomes a riot, and I just want to go to the bathroom and laugh out as loud as I can.

When I get home later that night, Bride of Frankenstein is on TV, the original 1935 version, which is this kickass movie with a killer prologue.
I stab my fork at my microwave-heated dinner, whatever it is, as the wicked Dr. Pretorius tempts Dr. Frankenstein into doing nefarious things onscreen, then toasts to some “new world of gods and monsters!”.

“Kickass, Doc!,” I blurt out to the television, and return the toast with my fork.