I Can’t Remember If I’ve Told You About Flaming Dave, But If Not, Here We Go Again

(NOTE: Based on time elapsed since the posting of this entry, the BS-o-meter calculates this is 8.442% likely to be something that Ferrett now regrets.)

Let me make this clear: Flaming Dave was very straight, insofar as I knew, and not called “Flaming Dave” when I first met him. He was a refrigerator-sized wall of meat, as befitted his position as a college quarterback.

Now, if you’re asking, “How the hell did Ferrett know a quarterback?”, you’re on the right track. I was a weedly nerd in college as you’d expect, but for some reason they put me on the football team dorm room. So at night, I’d continually be walking past behemoth frat pledges doing shots and wrestling and discussing sports.

It was a pretty lonely year.

But Dave – soon to be known as Flaming Dave – was nice to me. He had hidden depths, occasionally asking about the books I was reading, making small talk on the elevator. He seemed a kind fellow, and I thought well of him.

Then one day, after returning from a long weekend away, I saw Dave in the elevator.

His cheeks and lips were covered in blisters.

And not fresh blisters, either. Stubble had sprouted like weeds in between the bulbous outgrowths. He clenched his fists, trying not to itch his wounds.

“Dude, what happened?” I asked, appropriately distraught.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“It looks serious! How did you injure yourself so grievously?” I cried.

“I. Don’t. Wanna. Talk. About It.”

So of course, the moment I disengaged from Dave, I asked his friends – who were thrilled to be able to tell this story again.

And apparently, the tale was this: Last week, Dave and his buddies had stayed up late doing flaming shots. You might think this unwise, but they’d already done enough non-flaming shots that frankly, almost anything seemed like a good idea at this point.

And Dave… missed.

He splashed flaming Bacardi 151 all down his cheek.

And was drunk enough that he did not notice.

No, Dave – then a very flaming Dave – sat there contentedly as the flames consumed his flesh, savoring the taste of his beverage with a cryptic smile.

“Dude!” One of his friends cried. “Your face is on fire!”

“Mmm-hmm,” Dave said, astoundingly mellow for a man currently ablaze.

“No! Dave! Your face! It is on fire!”

“Yup,” Dave agreed merrily, the sizzle and pop beginning to permeate the room.

His friend, even as inebriated as he was, realized this was the time for action. He leapt from his seat, slapping the flames on Dave’s face –

And Flaming Dave decked him. One roundhouse punch knocked his rescuer out in one mighty blow – for, as previously noted, Dave was a muscular wall of meat.

Dave, furious that someone had dared attack him while he was lounging so happily, glared around the room, face engulfed in burning rum. “WHO ELSE WANTS SOME?” he thundered, as the blisters rose and rose.

They tackled him to the floor to put him out, of course, but by then he was – and would forever be – Flaming Dave.

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