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cigarette burns deep in the hardwood flooring, candle wax coating the walls, and my friend Lori crumpled up at the bottom of the stairs with a broken wrist, bloodied knees, and one fake eyelash hanging askew from her left eye. She had tripped on her four inch leather heels and noisily bounced down a flight of stairs behind me as I was kicking everyone out at four in the morning. I had holes in my stockings, abrasions on my hips from the tight leather underwear, and had eaten at least a pound of red lipstick that was constantly needing re-application. I'm sure some of my family members and friends will never look at me the same way again. It was a good time and can't wait for the next time.

At the Zurich theatre, Sandra, the Rocky horror virgin, and I found our seats and I began to explain the twisted plot of the play to her. I thought again, about how she takes me to the beautiful things in Switzerland, like the amazing Cirque Du Soleil a few nights before, or the top of Santis Mountain a week ago, and I subject her to the weird, depraved and demented crap that my warped mind thrives on.

The lights dimmed and the story narrator was suddenly visible, suffused by a spotlight. He introduced the story speaking German and the musical brouhaha began. During the wedding scene we were showered upon by handfuls of rice for about three minutes. I had failed to mention to Sandra about the use of projectiles in the show, so it was quite a shock when the first fistful of hard rice was flung into our faces from the rows in front of us. Then the rain came. Pistols and cannons sprayed water from every direction, soaking us while the performers and audience both sang "Over at the Frankenstein Place". That was all fine with Sandra, even getting wet was OK, but she wasn't too happy with the toilet paper rolls bouncing off the side of her head during the unraveling of Rocky. I started throwing the rolls around myself, grabbing them up from the floor beneath me and releasing them with all my might. Toilet paper was crisscrossing all the theatre seats, we were all weaved into a messy web of lavatory absorbency.

For the rest of the performance, we swam the warm waters of sins of the flesh and then took the bus home in the cold rain of reality.

Learn more about this author, Ron Sumners.
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