Free The Indifference League by Richard Scarsbrook

luxuries that Hippie Avenger was taught not to feel guilty about wanting. She considers slipping back inside her apartment for a quick self-pleasuring session, but she’s already an hour behind schedule. She is always running late, probably the result of growing up in a home free from the tyranny of clocks.
    She climbs up into the driver’s seat of the Microbus, wondering if she’s remembered to unplug the coffee percolator, or to lock the door to her apartment above the detached, bungalow-sized garage of her landlord’s suburban stucco-covered-cardboard McMansion. She shrugs. If her place gets robbed or burns down it won’t make any difference to her; she doesn’t own anything of real value, either monetary or sentimental. It’s one of the few old bumper stickers on the VW that actually reflects her own feelings: THINGS ARE JUST NOT MY THING .
    Hippie Avenger slides the key into the ignition on the scratched-up steering column and turns it. Nothing happens. She wiggles the key and tries again. Still nothing. Then she notices that the switch for the headlights is pulled out.
    Damn it! I left the lights on again.
    She walks around to the front of the McMansion. Her landlord and his wife have already departed for the holiday weekend, so she won’t be able to beg for yet another jump-start.
    Great. Like, now what am I going to do?
    Hippie Avenger doesn’t feel comfortable approaching one of her neighbours for help, because she still hasn’t met any of them (typical of these soulless, anti-community, commuter-culture subdivisions, her parents would be quick to point out). Besides, she doesn’t actually know how to open the engine compartment on the Microbus, or where to connect the clamps on the ends of the tangled jumper cables. It’s her landlord who always jump starts her van, and she has never paid much attention to how he does it. He is an expert on the mechanics of lawn mowers and weed trimmers and gas grills and other suburban gadgets that might as well be sub-molecular-particle accelerators as far as Hippie Avenger is concerned.
    She climbs the stairs to her garage-top apartment. She has, in fact, left the door unlocked. In the kitchen, she switches off the coffee percolator, reaches for the telephone, and dials Mr. Nice Guy’s number. He won’t mind swinging through Guelph to give her a ride to The Hall of Indifference; that’s why they call him Mr. Nice Guy. She gets his voice mail, though; he’s probably en route to the cottage already, and law-abiding, safety-conscious Mr. Nice Guy would never talk on his cellphone while driving.
    Next she tries Miss Demeanor; a recorded message informs her that “The caller you are trying to reach is currently unavailable,” which means that Miss Demeanor is probably engaged in another war of attrition with her cell service provider.
    Hippie Avenger doesn’t have a current number for The Drifter, so there is really only one other choice. She hesitates before dialling.
    Maybe she should just stay home for the weekend. Of the eight original Not-So-Super Friends, Hippie Avenger and The Statistician have the least in common. They probably wouldn’t be friends at all if not for the others. It might actually be less unpleasant for Hippie Avenger to spend the entire long weekend trapped in this deserted-for-the-weekend, miles-from-anywhere suburb, than to suffer that smug, philosophically-superior look on The Statistician’s face as he jump starts the Microbus. Even worse, if the persnickety VW refuses to co-operate, she might have to face the horror of spending three hours in a car with The Statistician and his whiny, high-maintenance, country-club wife.
    She looks out through the kitchen window, over the identical squares of chemically fertilized golf-green lawn and the identical asphalt-paved driveways of the identical beige-stucco McMansions lined up in perfect geometric order.
    Like, why did I ever move