Fictionalized, but just barely

So I decided to start putting some of my stories down in print again, like I've been saying I'm going to for years now. Bobbing for Chicken was my last, and that was about 2 years ago. So anyway, most of you know Tim, and have heard some, or even all of the stories, but I still want to put them down, not only for memory's sake, but because they afford me an opportunity to practice writing fiction, as I am half-creating dialogue, setting, etc. I spoke with Tim tonight because I couldn't remember his girl at the time's name, and he ok'd it for me to embellish a little if I needed to. Of course, if you know Tim, you know that these stories are about 90% accurate in the details, and 100% true in spirit. So without further adeiu, I present:

A Stone’s Throw

Part 1

I’m sitting on the couch. A high-pitched alarm brings the conversation to a sudden stop. The Lion King is playing on the television, but no one is watching. Instead, everyone’s eyes are on the kitchen, where billowing clouds of white smoke are rising like mushroom clouds from an enormous pan on the stove. Attached to the pan is Tim, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He’s wearing no shirt, a tall chef’s hat, and blue jeans. The cuffs pile up around his ankles.
“Damn dude, I think I burnt these bitches.” He looks at us as though the idea were unthinkable, as though he were in shock.
I get up off the couch and squeeze past Tim’s latest fuck, an under-aged girl named Tara. Stepping over our friend Shannon, who is sitting with his back against the wall, I come up over Tim’s shoulder.
The steaks are indeed burned. Looking into the pan, I see what used to be 2 decent-sized T-bones, their immolated remains laying there like a couple of B-rate movie corpses, still very steak-shaped, but black and crispy, and still giving off little plumes of smoke. One of them suddenly pops, like a campfire log living out its last moments, and makes him jump.
“Gives new meaning to the word blackened,” I joke, but no one laughs. “Just throw them away. You’re filling the house with smoke.” Tim looks from the pan to me and back again.
“Fuck it,” he says, and he carries the pan out of the kitchen, through the living room and to the front door, which Shannon just opened to let out some of the smoke. He leans over the edge of the balcony, like he’s looking for just the right spot, then he heaves the two leathery steaks over the edge.
“Nice toss,” I say, as I look down upon them. He managed to clear the little courtyard and tossed them all the way to the alley. You could see them plainly, the last of their heat having melted little recesses in the ice about 2 feet from the dumpster.
“There a alley cat that lives down there. He’ll eat ‘em,” Tim says, not wanting to go down the icy steps and into the cold to actually pick them up and dispose of them properly.
“Or some fuckin’ homeless guy,” says Shannon, who is now standing with us, looking down on the steaks. He lights a cigarette, and Tim joins in by lighting his as well. They stand on the balcony finishing their smokes, occasionally glancing at the steak as though they expect something exciting to happen. I go back inside and join Tara on the couch.