And I know its been a while, since I needed a distraction.

Bangkok the whole year round is hot and humid, but its as if it could sense October coming and it gave us a gloomy and windy evening. Decent rain showers have started to graze the heated asphalts here and there and I'm not one to complain. What's even better is this time of year we might not have to endure the plethora of smoggy highways and by-ways caused by the traffic jam, but the ashen foggy and dewy mornings caused by the easterly winds signaling we're now a long way from the tedious hot summers.

At first glance, days in university went on as it is. But if you squint closely, clubs have started spear-heading horror movie nights since the start of October. Bulletin boards swarming with invites for a Halloween play, tickets for a horror booth somewhere, and spooky-themed battle of the bands during the weekends.

Even the faculty office is in on the jig. Their office doors littered with poorly-made googley eyes and makeshift "cobwebs" that don't actually look like cobwebs but just a bunch of spray-painted cotton.

Just then university girls could finally have a decent excuse to get festive with their Starbucks orders of either a poorly-done pumpkin-spiced latté or the extra sweet eggnogs.

All the more excuse for the frat houses to throw loud and booze-addled parties.

All the more excuse for the coke heads to draw lines with their friends in the bathrooms.

It wasn't even in my intention to graze a Halloween Party but they say Frat parties are hot in university--and its about to get hotter during Halloween season.

In a figurative sense, to emphasize.

I wasn't obliged to jump the gun, but when you're young and surrounded by like-minded individuals who only cared for activities post-class, e.g. pissing up on the weekends and club-hopping, you can't really blame them for squeezing in a teeny tiny bit diversion away from beating deadlines and handling in papers.

Let's just say, I jumped onto the band wagon. Would never say no to a themed party.

Drinking the strong liquor from my red solo cup, and grimacing from the strong taste, I watched the crowd of costumed individuals dancing the night away letting the night consume them as they drank and danced through the loud techno music dressed as different people. Some flailed incoherently, some pranced--more like ground onto their partners.

Ah, an oncoming primer for a soon-to-be-forgotten hookup.

I'll leave the kids to grind. The warmth and the marijuana-drenched couch might have to do for now. My friends left me to gallivant somewhere and I'm not one to grind my privates on a thirsty frat boy.

I was in the middle of pondering whether the girl was dressed as a Playboy bunny or just your typical bunny when this god in velveteen bell-bottoms, heeled golden boots and clad in pink faux fur jacket appeared in front of me.

The buttons on his silk shirt inside of his fuzzy jacket was barely buttoned, revealing his chiseled chest. Very interesting display.

"Mick Jagger," I said through the loud music, eyeing him from head to toe.

He was doning a leather belt on his high waisted pants and it captivated me--accentuating his petite hips.

The real Mick Jagger has plump lips, and this man dressed as him also possessed the plumpest lips in the shape of a heart--he's the perfect Mick Jagger alter-ego. Minus the gap between his teeth, he has the perfect pearly whites.

Mick did a turn fit for an Armani supermodel, chuckled to himself and sat beside me on the couch.

The brief display of his wide and sturdy back took me back someplace, sometime, a place and a time I now have trouble remembering.

Did I know him from somewhere? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe he's one of those frat guys on the prowl of new members I once saw on a rally for recruiting new members, I don't know. But enough of that.

I inspected his carefully-crafted ensemble. He looked like the kind of guy to put much thought in a halloween costume. Very mindful of paying close attention to detail. Very me.

Yet the. Nagging thought still nipped at the back of my head like a ticking sound I can't locate.

I was awashed with this peculiar impression brewing inside of me. The guy looked familiar. His prominent physique rang a bell though I can't quite grasp when and where I might've possibly seen him.

His voice resonated above the earsplitting clangour reverberating through the speakers, even his pitch and tone is familiar. This is weird.

But maybe the only one being weird here is me.

His mouth moving proximately to my ear to whisper sent shockwaves to my body, therefore causing me to abandon the inner inquisition I was having with my subconscious.

"What is Freddie Mercury doing here, sat on the couch by himself when he could be out there being the life of the party?" He uttered, more like shouted--narrowing his eyes on me after lowering his aviator shades at the bridge of his nose.

That voice, it's a bit familiar, moreso one I think I might've heard before--of course, sometime, in the distant past but my ears and my memory just won't connect. Now this is pretty much a massive itch I can't scratch.

I raised my brows. "And what is Mick Jagger doing sitting on a couch with introverted Freddie Mercury when he could spend the night prancing to the music,"

"This Mick Jagger is as introverted as your Freddie Mercury, per se." He winked.

I'm still playing Sherlock with my subconscious that maybe I've been staring at him long and hard enough like a weirdo psychic that he started waving his hands in front of my face.

"Freddie, are you with me." He asks, awaiting a reaction from me.

Ashamed of my actions, I fully abandoned the speculation for now. My clothes soaking up the smell of indica is a more important thing to deal with rather than my useless self-crafted delusions on this stranger.

I was having a shabby time anyway. This couch is very much fitting to the couple exchanging cherry-flavoured spit as they went on with it on the floor.

"Wanna go outside?"

Mick was quick to tug at my wrist. Assertive, I'm impressed.

So outside we went.

Glad my far from marvellous time in there came to an end. We reached the pool.

The massive brick house is packed, filled with Halloween decorations. Fake cobwebs, witch's hats, plastic spiders, and whatnot. Decorations alone must've cost a thousand or so Baht and I feel very sorry for them, unless they're packed and pricey one-night-only decorations are the least of their worries.

Don't even get me started with the "buffet table" which was now garnished with every spooky snacks you could ever think of, spunked punch, and jello shots.

I think I'll stick with my chardonnay.

"So. What brings introverted Freddie Mercury at a frat house?" Mick asked, sitting on the pavement beside me--his legs bent.

I made myself comfortable on the diving board, hoping it won't collapse on me and ruin my carefully-thought attire.

"Free booze and fleeting diversion." I said, in this philosophical yet faux arrogant tone.

"Ah, the perfect combo. You're not gonna ask me what brings introverted Mick Jagger to a Frat house too?"

My ears perked up. "Wouldn't take you for an introvert, to be honest." I shrugged.

Mick squints his eyes at me. "Why's that?"

"You seem like a frat boy to me," He chuckled at my remark.

"Again, why's that?"

"You're this...Enigma. You're cool, laid-back. In an almost like a surfer bro-dude aura. And almost all of the frat guys here exude-" I paused to clear my throat. "--I-go-to-surfing-classes-with-my-bros-not-to-learn-surfing-but-to-ogle-the-hot-teacher type of aura." I explained in a ramble, earning yet another round of laughs from him.

"Are you some sort of a psychic or something? Were you supposed to dress up like a fortune teller but was coerced to prepare an outfit last minute?" He gestured as if he was peering onto a crystal ball.

"And you're quick to unleash your inner fortune teller. But am I wrong?"

"Yes. From start to finish of your--surfer bro-dude soliloquy," He cringed as he says 'surfer bro-dude.'

"I took a wild guess, but wouldn't I look like the coolest bloke if you really were?" I said marvelling about the possibility.

He nodded. "They would either run for their life, or end up kissing your ass."

"So which one are you going to be?" I teased.

"Probably the latter. But in a literal way," He teases back, winking yet again. I punched his arm lightly, the feel of silk and fur soft against my touch.

"I Can't Get No Satisfaction." I spoke out of the blue, peering close to the chlorine-scented water beneath me.

"Can you? Or is that your favourite Stones song?" He asked, getting my point.

I like this guy. Very chill--the slyest minx I ever did see. The banter seemed to be never-ending. Sexy sense of humour, and sexy physicality. He blew air upwards at the fringe of his long wig. Now he looks like a grumpy school boy. Cute.

"Both." I answered, and this time, it was my time to wink at him.

"I have a feeling you'll end up getting the satisfaction you deserved tonight, though." Mick spoke, he's so sure of himself. Its hot.

A hundred points to Mick!

"We'll see about that, Mister Jagger."

We stared at each other for a few seconds then bursted in laughter.

"Killer Queen," He spoke after recovering from his laughing fit.

"Am I? Or that's your favourite Queen Song?" I asked in the same manner he did and he gave me a knowing side eye.

Clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth, "Both. Guaranteed to blow my mind,"

Ah! He knows his Killer Queen lyrics too! I'm head over cleats.

"The mustache looked too real. Props to whoever did your look for you," Mick said, poking at my fake Mercury mustache.

He playfully flinched, so as if he was pricked by the spikey-ness of the fake mustache.

The ultimate Freddie Mercury look won't be complete without the iconic and legendary mustache.

"I did. Thanks. Gotta commend you for the gold boots too!" I complimented, gawking at his boots.

"And that's thanks to the thrift store downtown." He said and wiggled his feet to showcase more of the sparkly boots.

There was only one novelty thrift store downtown. Could this be the red string of fate working its wonders?

"No shit. Vannie's Vintage?"

If you were to ask me to choose a place to be locked in for twenty-four hours, I would have picked Vannie's Vintage. They had all the good stuff. Faux fur, ballet jockstraps, cheetah print coats, and lots of 80's inspired silver swimsuits. Its where I got my yellow Freddie Mercury marching band jacket--the one he wore at Wembley.

"The one and only! They sell all the good shit! You're practically in vintage heaven as soon as you come in." Mick agreed giddily.

Pure, utter, yet comfortable silence has soon loomed in and clouded our banter. Not because we've sunken in to the reality that, holy shit, who even is this guy? Mick raised his beer can to me, warranting a toast. I was quick to clink the plastic cup with his drink.

"I'm sorry, Freddie." Mick uttered, a little too quiet, a little too sincere.

"Isn't it supposed to be, 'cheers to you, Freddie?'"

He shakes his head from side to side, shoulders slump. Mick looked like he wasn't talking to me, but to the real Freddie as if he's standing right next to him. "No, I really am sorry."

I'm all for a little role-play.

I tilted my head upwards and wiggled my mustache. "Are you sorry I died?" It was point-blank an honest question.

Mick didn't answer, as if he found my question vague.

"Are you sorry I died because of--"

Mick instantly knew what I was getting at.

He frowns. "That too." Mick confessed. "But I'm more sorry you weren't around enough to show more of you to the world."

A sensible young man who truly cares! I'm in awe.

"But I was around enough to make quite an impact, didn't I? And that's what matters,"

"You did. And you're still as impactful nowadays. But I wish you'd overcome the--you know, the illness," Mick's shoulders dropped--caving in to embrace himself.

He was talking to me as if I was Freddie myself.

"I feel like," He catches himself, stuck on a thought. "The world would have been a little more, I don't know, tolerable. You could have made more music,"

"I didn't insist on putting out Bohemian Rhapsody for you to cry on me like that, but thanks for missing me. Heaven knows I miss all of you too," I countered along, mustering my impersonation to tye best of my abilities.

There was supposed to be an underlying humour beneath the situation, but the way Mick spoke openly with utter vulnerability left me to be reminiscent.

"Cursum perficio," I said in sincerity, as if I was taken back to the exact time of Freddie Mercury's death. Shattered and hesitant, I am, but Mick's stare burned through my own allowing me to meet the blistering persiflage we seem to have found ourselves in.

"My journey is over." Mick uttered to quote the phrase,--as a sign he wasn't blind to what I've said, his frown unfaltering.

If you were to connect me to a heart rate monitor right now, the pulsing in my heart would have surged up to a maximum just by staring at Mick's lips. The arch of his cupid's bow more prominent with every juvenile frown.

Underneath Mick's strong and upfront mask is a vulnerable and emotive young man. I don't want to jump uselessly on a self-made puddle but Mick might have revealed a bit more insight to who he was outside of this rock god guise.

And this unsettling feeling as we exchange latin terms and stuff continue to build up inside of me in a weird, crazy nostalgia.

The night is deepening into a spirally blur--for the stumbling drunks atleast. The front yard looked like it has been through a storm,--beer bottles on the grass, fading neon sticks are scattered everywhere and don't even get me started with the unfinished packets of snacks. The surrounding oak trees are basically TP'ed, and there's a passed out Incredible Hulk by the bushes.

With all the drunken party-goers, smudged mascara and long-discarded items of clothing and passing out from one too many keg stands, the frat party is nearing its end.

But my own party with Mick Jagger, whom I'm still feel very familiar with-- has just started.