Tuesday, 3 June 2008

It was the end of the fucking line...

Sunday about 6 am. We were at the end of the fucking line.

The place was, in a metaphorical way, where old, rusty, battered cars with oil leaks go to die. In a non metaphorical way, too, if you substitute cars with people and oil with... er... oil, piss or "I don't want to know" -yep, time doesn't treat people kindly, I suppose- and wrinkled instead of battered; it's not a cheap whorehouse, it's just some sort of human junkyard where people who were in their youth or middle age in the 70s go to drink and dance, or mess with their prosthetic hips, or whatever.

So, there we were. It was a lot like the bar in the hotel in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas", but instead of peanuts there were popcorn bowls and those little salted cookies. The reptiles, I mean, people inside were the same, though, but worn out. All this show of light and colour, carried to our brains with EnhancedVision(tm), i.e.: a visual enhancement obtained after drinking beer, vodka and mezcal and watching Bollywood and cheap-ass ninja movies before going out.

Then a thin, wrinkly woman who might be in her late 30s or in her early 60s (the kind of woman that ages worse than a can of tuna left open in the jungle) comes towards me and asks me something. The horror... the horror! I answer with some faux-Kazakh nonce words from Borat (from the naked fight scene, more specifically) and my pal comes up with something good: "My friend is Serb!". I play along, and he claims that my axe-shaped and celtic cross shaped pendants are Serbian decorations for bravery or something like that. She freaks out, walks away and we laugh our asses off.

Which goes to show that in a dump where young, idiotic people go to fuck with elderly people because of -you all probably can guess- their money, good things can happen too if you are willing to make up surreal stuff!