Tequila Ambassador Ruins Another Sofa
We've all been there. Jay-walking our way through those mean streets, between one meth dose and the next, when the ADD kicks in and the stalking begins. The victim to such stalking will usually be quite the eccentricity herself. In this case, she was wearing a Wonder Woman... or maybe it was a Superwoman costume. Claiming that I was able to tell which one it was in that state would be an insult to my readers' intelligence.
I stalked her with the subtlety of a tractor going downhill—the ideal camouflage among these cum-guzzling drunkards. She didn't seem to notice me following her into the Aurora club and this forces me to assume that I was being inconspicuous after all.
Inside, I leaned against the bar to avoid yet another battle against gravity and ordered a couple of drinks. This type of environment is usually a fertile ground for thoughts, and soon enough that light bulb popped over my head. I need me a bottle. A credit card's very existence is justified by such enlightened moments.
Bartenders are succubi feeding on your nocturnal decay. They will lure you with their free shots and try to build up a relationship of trust and camaraderie with their plastic all-white smiles, but your liver's well-being and occasional mnemonic lapses will never make it to their list of concerns. They have never seen me anywhere close to a state of sobriety, yet they wouldn't deny me a bottle if I were riding solo, with puke stains on my shirt, dilated pupils and piss marks sporadically spread over my pantaloons. Which, as a matter of fact, is pretty close to the state I would reach by the end of the night.
In a Venn diagram, me and shyness do not intersect, and the Belvedere standing by my side is not meant to humble me down. I wait for the super-heroine to look my way, then call her over with a spastic movement of my index finger. How could she resist? I looked as fly as I possibly could. I had even brushed my teeth twice on that day.
"Have a seat. This bad boy won't finish itself," I said, pointing at the bottle.
"All the seats are taken."
"Daddy's lap is vacant."
She had piggy tails and I told her everything a pig would tell a girl with piggy tails. If you're thinking this is no way to address a lady, take that wax out of your ears ‘cause daddy is about to drop some knowledge. Also, I hope you contract pancreatic cancer and die a slow and painful death for questioning me. I'm an expatriate in this wretched island, and whereas most ladies will have objections to a frequent use of "fuck" and its derivatives, if one uses long, archaic or peculiar expressions, as, say, "I will dilate your sphincter," most feminitas will respond with a friendly nod.
By now my charm had captured her. That or she had enough vodka in her system for me to drag her to the dance floor. I noticed this girl must have been doing her squats because she could pop, lock and drop it as if someone had shot both her kneecaps. I soon lost interest in her face and started grinding on her derriere.
And then, ladies, gentlemen, fuckers, hogs and hog fuckers, the inevitable happened. For the last few minutes, my brain had been engaged in internal discourse with my bladder on the appropriate location to take a leak. The bladder had made some pretty compelling arguments by reminding the brain of the flight of stairs that separated me from the toilet and of my pledge to the concept of inertia. The legs were tired and took the bladder's side. Soon enough, warm urine started flowing down my pants.
Tempting as the target was, I was in no mood to piss away the night just yet.This is no time to start being truthful, I thought, and immediately started formulating possible excuses: "These cunts can't hold their glasses in an upright position,"; "Girl is it hot in here? I'm sweating like a pig"; and "Did you just have diarrhea on my pants?" It goes without saying, all of the above were sensible and adequate excuses, but it suddenly hit me that she hadn't realized anything yet and it might not be too late to just take my crotch off her bumbum. Slightly disappointed by the commonality of my approach, I limped my way back to my vodka. Unfinished business, you see. My memory of the rest of the evening drowned somewhere down that bottle.
I woke up face down on a sofa and instinctively reached for my mobile phone to see the time, only to realize that my pocket was full of peanuts. Someone must have had a good time pulling a prank on a barely conscious me. Prick. I hope he too dies of pancreatic cancer. Unless it was you, in which case one death will suffice.
At this point Wonder Woman came in and started whining about me being flatulent while asleep. Flatulent? Scandinavians are flatulent, I fart! I asked her whether we did anything and she told me I said something about her taking everything off down to her Tampax, and then passed out. Plausible. She then went to the kitchen to make breakfast while I roamed around the room for a cigarette. In the midst of my life-preserving quest, I realized that the piss-fest didn't end at the club: her sofa was soaked. Yet another casualty of war. What's more, this was not the kind of sofa where you can just flip the pillows around and go on with your day. This problem required a creative solution which was far beyond my cognitive capabilities at this inhumane time of the morning. Keen to avoid the headache this would entail, I grabbed my jacket and told her I had to go.
"A meeting of some sort. Yes, on a Saturday. These people are milking me like a cow because of this recession. Williamson from accounting had a seizure from being overworked. Call me, here's my number."
The key in these situations is to rush out of the door before she realizes that you have left behind yet another victim of the golden shower treatment (or the less frequent skid mark) and that you gave her a fake number. Needless to say, I have the relevant experience in both fields and was thus able to diddy-bop away from my territorial mark undisturbed.