No Rhyme or Reason

No Rhyme or Reason

I got stabbed. Now if you’d told me this a coupla years back I wouldn’t have believed you, thing is I still kinda don’t. If I tell my friends they don’t. Heck I don’t blame them. Not in a gang, or military, or cops. Just your regular guy. Thing is, things just happen to me. Trouble just follows me around.

If I wouldn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have luck at all.
And as bonkers as it sounds, for me it’s just another story. Another Fury story. That’s what I do. I collect stories. I get older, and they stick. Like glue. Rather like scars cos I never lose them.

No stitch, no story.

For I devolve, or get too metaphysical let’s just tell the damn story and start from the beginning. Like any good tale, it starts with a girl.

Amsterdam, 2018, Third Christmas Day. A day I’ll never forget. For obvious reasons surely. I had met a Turkish chick a few months back on the street, and exchanged numbers, and we agreed to meet up, for a drink.
I took the train from Rotterdam, the second city of Netherlands, to Amsterdam, and brought with me a bottle of vodka. My friend, Tiger, bought it for me, to celebrate my first real gig as an enGineer.

Figured the bottle be a after-party style thing, with the Turkish, Hey babe let’s bounce back to your place, I got the good stuff. Russian Standard. Not quite Grey Goose or Belvedere, but fuck those, overrated.

She was waiting for me in the hall of Amsterdam Central, at the piano, we hugged and bounced forward to the center. It was already late and dark, and the small alleys gave a soft night glow. Romantic.
We had drinks, had pizza, and that was it. She had to be home early. I got some pecks on the cheek. I went for the mouth, but there was no tongue action. Cos she thought she might had herpes. A thing on her lips. I don’t know. Didn’t catch it. But no sloppy wet action, though.

Shrug. She left. I was fine. She wasn’t that cute, but feminine, and nice, and she paid for pizza, good girl. But the problem, really, I was left with a bottle of vodka. Russian Standard. Quarter full. Good to go. Popping bottles time.
I looked at the city center, from the central station, after dropping Turkish off, and the city gave off an ominous glow. Humming and buzzing, full of potential, and danger, and excitement, and wonder. Lights. Small ancient brick buildings shining.

It was late, and I chainsmoked my way to the center. I met a dude in a scorpion suit and took some photos, and had a drink by myself in a bar, vodka on the table. Just waiting. Patiently. Like an old Albanian gangster sitting in the same spot of his café, which he earned with blood and sweat, and tears of a maiden, or his victims.

I snaked left and right, through the signature brick streets of Amsterdam and came to the whores. Red light district. There was one Slavic, huge breasts, curves good ass. Serpentine tongue, slithering. Twirling in the air. Enticing. Siren. I just took a swig of vodka, straight from the bottle, and looked at her. Dead eyes. I observed. It was late and the bottle on the street was normal, now.

Some guys passed by, and we did a puff-puff pass kinda thing with the bottle. They left, others came. Same deal. Bottle. Cup. Pour, pour. Share and drink and repeat. Hours or minutes or Vodka time went by and the bottle was almost empty. There was a bar on the corner, right across the whores. It was a sailor themed bar. There was a guard. I wanted to bring the bottle in. He said no can do and patted the air in front of him, once, like a stop sign.

There were some foreign dudes, from the Sahara I later learned, who were having a smoke and a break, fresh air, outside and we shared the last of the bottle. Let’s go boys! I was okay, and the bottle didn’t hit me. Still buzzed up, but still good to go. Nothing fancy. Especially if you know me.

We stepped inside, we chatted somewhat. And it was boring, and I did what I always do when bored. I drink more. I ordered a Vodka Red Bull and started chatting up random people until I hit. Like Blackjack. You gotta keep betting and betting and betting, and then, you hit. Something. You know it when you see it.
And I saw it alright. A wild pack of Mexicans. One tall dude leading the pack. Jet black hair, in a ponytail. He was big, bit tall, but not huge. Black coat. Cute caramel colored girl. Wavy hair. Stern look. Cute though. The rest was forgettable. But like I said, Wild energy. Off the charts. I mean the music was okay. Not that good.

These people people knew how to throw down. The alpha saw me. He waved me over. Good nature smile, open body language. He said, You’re with us now. So I left the Sahara guys and joined the Mexicans. I chatted with the cute girl, more like woman, cos she and the Alpha were from Moscow, now living in Prague, and now travelling to Amsterdam, and then Berlin. Business people. Travelling around. Wild animals. Good natured. Just your regular old idea of fun.
Girl was still stern and I ignored her. I had hit. Blackjack. This was the set. Thing is when you’re a loner, sigma, drifter or just a solo dude. It gets tough as the night progresses. You think, Just go home man. It’s late. Not worth it. Go sleep. No pussy for you. You’re wasting money.
But when you hit, you know there is gonna be a story.
Well, there was.

The pack was becoming restless, and one of them shouted, Afterparty!
So we went, across the canals, snaking over brick bridges, one and two and three, and I lost count, cos I was buzzed up and not good, but fun and lost and hazed and dazed. Story time.

We got to this place, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what the place was until I visited it again this year. Guard saw the high energy animals in, and let us in. No worries.

Inside was bonkers. Music was in full swing. Loud. Disco-style. Bangers only. It was party time. Get down. I chatted with an old timer and started firing off shots. Vodka. Three I think. Easy. Just getting started. I was still wearing my trenchcoat and it was getting a bit stifling as I was dancing with the circling wild Mexicans.
In the circle, the Mexican girl came up to me. Ass to my dick. Grinding. Hard, sensually, passionately. Latina fire. Her eyes were soft and frail and wet. Game time. Usual party shit. Since I was loose and wild and it’s Amsterdam and trouble and fun and danger is the name and the game.
Night progresses. It’s getting late.

I go down to the basement, smokebreak. I meet some Frenchie, talk him up, polish my French B level a bit.
Lauria, let’s call her that, came down, said, ‘Baby where were you?’
I said, ‘I’ll be up in a minute, corazon.’
Tapped her on the butt, firm, not hard, but with sound. Just enough. And corazon, like a lovey-dovey nickname. Like babe.

Franco, the alpha, was not her man, and he was upstairs and he was just chill as fuck and a music teacher, you know, open and free-spirited and just leading the gang. Just dancing. Just bullshit and party.

By the time I got upstairs, I lost total sense of time and space. Not good. Or rather perfect. Depending on your take, perspective.

Laurie was what I call, and my friends,  filling me up. Like your car, at the gasstop. But with beer, instead of oil. Here, babe, another 0.5L beer. Here. Here. Here. Another, another, another. And another. We lost count. She drank too. And it was total ballistic. Full on party. We grinded. We danced. Salsa and it was beautiful and she could kiss really well. Hard and firm and wet but enough and not sloppy and disgusting. Fire. Fuego.

So all was good you know. My inebriated brain started running the numbers. I am going to sleep with this beautiful latina.
Night progressed.

The other Mexicans started disappearing one by one. I was taking turns, between up and downstairs. Smoke, and then drink. Drink, and then smoke. The smoke keeps you afloat. If you know you know.

At one point I saw Laurie’s scarf. In the holes of my mind, time and space warped, gone, oblivion, this is what I remember. A scarf. And a prank. A good natured tease. Like you know, I got your scarf, haha, tease, dance with me, kiss me, let’s fuck.

So the night collided into a concoction of music and liquor and grinding and latina fire and the I slipped into warp-speed.
Teleporting. This is when you blackout and appear out of nowhere in another place, at another time.
Laurie was upset. Don’t know why.
I was making out.
Franco. Oh, he was there still. Chaperoning us. I was clinging to him, for balance. He kept saying, ‘Go to Laurie, man.’ Nudging me in her direction.
More makeout with Laurie.
Blink. Walking through the empty quiet streets of Amsterdam. Not a soul in sight. Just us three.
Then blink.
Something bout the scarf. Don’t know. The haze and daze of all the damn liquor. Dumb. Fuck me. I never learn.
A stab to my left forearm dragged me from my deep slumber, into a hauntingly vivid state of atavistic awareness. I was awake now. That was for damn sure.
A stab. Huh, what? My brain had no time to think. Just survival. No why or what or how or whatever. No time for bullshit. Just. Knife. Enemy. Survival. Get home. Fix the problem.
The problem was Laurie. She had stabbed me.
Not in a million years I was thinking I was going to get stabbed. Not in another extra gazillion years I thought it was going to be a woman. Let’s not even begin to mention the fact the night was going really good, and we were walking back to her hostel. And I was about to sleep with her. Let that just percolate in the air, for a minute, or so. Before we continue.

A Mexican. Who I met at a bar. Who I drank and danced and grinded with. Who I kissed with. Who I was walking home.
This crazy chicana she stabbed me.

This is why I never like to tell the story. Not cos I got stabbed or that it hurt or it was embarrassing or dangerous or stupid or a dumb drunk story. No. None of that. It sounds like non-fiction. Some sci-fi surreal bullshit. That’s why. It’s simply illogical. Doesn’t make sense.
Back to the down and dirty.

The knife was dull and didn’t penetrate my trenchcoat or suit jacket sleeve. None of it. I was unscathed. There is, to this day, still a scar, which looks very much like a place where I could’ve gotten stab. Not for sure. Cos I was drunk as fuck.
Laurie left of me, and to my right Franco. Chill as fuck. Later he’d tell me he’d seen some action in Mexico, which is why he was chill as fuck, his demeanour, desensitization under danger. Cholo.

I looked at Laurie. It was late. I was all alone. No back up and a chick was going to off me. No frikkin way. Just no way.

I looked at the blade. In her right hand. It was the biggest frikkin blade I’d ever seen.
She made an upward stabbing motion in the air, and said, ‘This is a blade. I come from Mexico. And I stab people.’
I was like, What the flying fuck?
I was drunk as fuck and the words didn’t make fucking sense but words I’ll never forget. The world has no rhyme or reason.
This bitch was playing a femme fatale, so I thought, better play my part too, you know.
I looked at her hard, taking a small step back with my right foot, masking it with my words, just like in the movies, or books. Orthodox style. Fighter-stance. Combat ready. You know, shrug, when in Rome.
I was tired, and drunk. It was late. Might as well get it over with. Sigh.
I looked at this beautiful, deadly Latina.
I said, ‘Corazon, put the blade down. Or I’ll fucking knock you out.’
The closest I’ve ever been to Bond dialogue. Killer woman, killer Fury. How it’s gotta be.

She was hesitating now. The blade was jabbing forward, and the upward. Its own little rhythm. Which was perfect, which meant I could time my overhand right and clip her right in that beautiful kisser. As soon as the blade went up again. Forward. Up. Forward. Up.

Now. I thought. Now. I was about to punch a person, on the streets, for the first time. A woman, for the first time too.

Then Franco jumped in, from the right, like a Ninja. A life saver. He said mumbling words in Spanish and covered the blade with his left hand. Like it was nothing and this was normal and we were just drunk and we should walk it off.
Spanish mumble. Danger averted.
I was sitting on a curb. Franco in front of me. He said, ‘Stay here, I’ll bring Laurie home.’
I thought whatever and just sat blasted and angry and frustrated and alone.
I was all alone and then moments later Franco came back.
He booked me into the same hostel he and Laurie were staying and I fell asleep.  

The next morning I woke up, being dragged out of my stupid drunk stupor, into the crisp daylight and two brazilian mammies were doing their make-up, to tackle the day. I smirked. Am I in heaven?
I had no shit went me, just the raggy trench on my back, so I went down and to the lobby of the hostel. I talked to the girl behind the counter, and told her to leave a note.
For Franco and Laurie.
I left, walking through the cold day light, another night survived, all the way to the train station, and on the train, or maybe later, I don’t know, I was texting Franco. Thanks. Got home. See you in Prague or Berlin.
He said, ‘Wanna have dinner tonight with us, and a drink?’
I said, ‘Yes.’

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