The Evolution of Quadka

The Evolution of Quadka

What is Quadka? If you are not on Twitter, or dont follow, me the odds are you have no clue the fuck Im talking about. That’s OK, why we here.

As with large changes in my life the birth of Quadka started on Twitter. 
There people love to flex, and influence on another, for the better, or sheer stupidity. Or a combination of both. 

If you noticed by know the word Quadka rhymes with Vodka. Because yes exactly, that’s what this story is about. Vodka. And a whole lotta of it. Copious amounts. Enough to make a normal person lose his sanity, IQ, and just his life. Hello Underworld.

Normal people love to do shots, tequila, but more importantly, regarding this story, VODKA.

So, there was this dude on Twitter who said the following:

“Real G’s go the bar and order triple shots vodka. Triplets. And pay cash ONLY. And let the bartender keep the change.”

The malleable spirit I was, I embarked upon a journey to complete said endeavour to fully acknowledge my G status.


I enter my watering hole. It’s around nine, and the joint gets going much later. Around eleven or so. I need to entertain myself for the time being. I walk in. The bar is long, and has three sections. Front, middle, back. I walk to the middle. There are tables to stand and have a drink. Small hooks lining the wall, beneath the table, low. I hang up my coat.

What better way to kill time then to order vodka?

I scope the place and there’s nothing popping. Music is good though. Classic rock. I think about Kansas and if they do requests and would take mine. I make my way to the bar. The bartender doesn’t look like a guy who I’d shoot the shit with. Could be me. Imagination. Try to keep an open mind, and greet the guy. I specifically say what’s up, cos in another joint a bartender gave me grief for not greeting him. Back then I had said two beers, and he ignored me and said good evening. I repeated and he said good evening again. I didn’t get it. He just looked at me and then it hit me. Basic protocol. Greet the guy. Manner, politeness, social constructs. Whatever.

That was long time ago, when I drank more beer, and less vodka, and was oblivious to most things. Well that last part is always a hoot. I basically grew up Quasimodo, without the bump. Outcast. Never quit like others.

I say to the bartender, ‘Bartender, three vodka shots.’

The guy goes blank for a sec. Oh here it comes, I think.

Giving shit.

Might still be wrong.

Bartender says, ‘No.’


I look around me. Not looking for help or anything. More like, You kidding me?

‘Three vodka shots. Please.’

‘No. I’ll give you one shot first.’

I wince.

I’m not quick to throw the race card. And maybe it was the three piece suit I was wearing. I know, Know your setting, and dress accordingly. But sometimes I just don’t care and wear exactly what I want and makes me feel good. That night was a suit night. Sue me.

My face doesn’t exactly exude friendliness, or happy cheery go lucky. Kinda like a yakuza mask, I’ve been told. I change the tone.

‘Bartender, something I don’t understand?’ I ask.

Guy says, ‘I’m going to give you one first.’

I raise one eyebrow, lopsided.

‘I said three shots.’

Maybe he has bad hearing or something.

Could be me. Imagination.

For the life of me, the guy lines up two shots, and starts filling the first. One first. Sure okay, dude I ain’t got all night. It’s not popping, I get that, but gimme my shots and let me down them. Yeesh.

The second shot glass gets filled. But half. The bottle is empty. The bartender turns around and away. I think he’s gonna get another bottle. He isn’t. He just stands there. Hands clasped, in front of his crotch. Like he’d shoot the shit. Not with me though. I’d dick punch him, right where he stands, right through his guard.

I wave the guy over again.

‘I said three shots,’ I say again.

‘Yeah I heard you,’ he says. ‘But you’re going to do one first.’

I look around. Again. This time making a show out of it, embellishing. Are. You. Kidding. Me? Two guys flank me. They’re minding their own business, and don’t look like the type who’d have my back. White, big, and douchey.

I get fed up. I turn up the yakuza look. Look at the bartender. Straight in the eyes. Dead one. He flinches. Pussy. This is the type of man who’s never seen any hardship. Has no power or authority in his life, and feels the need to exercise an illusion of it, on a young Asian man just looking to down three shots. Modern day tragedy. Shakespeare weeps.

I say, ‘Am I not getting something, bartender? Is there a sign somewhere that says I can’t order three vodka shots? If you’re not going to serve me what I ordered, I’m going somewhere where they do. Also, the one and a half shot you already poured, you can drink that yourself. I ain’t paying for that.’

Guy looks at the shot, and a half. Shoulders droops. He makes a face. Almost like a pout. Like a bitch. Guy turns around and get a fresh full bottle. And a shot glass. The third. Fuck me, finally. He lines them up neatly, and fills.

Guy says, ‘Cash, or card?’


I had cash in my pocket. I had wanted to pay the triplet vodka, in cash. A friend of mine does it that particularly way, and it’s cooler he says, and I wanted to do it, like a cool quirky ritual between us. The guy ruined it. I even had my phone ready, and tapped a girl to my left on the shoulder, for a quick snap of the shots and me downing them. Never happened. Guy ruined it.

Paying with cash is also cool for giving tips. To heighten the experience, for shot taker, and giver. Guy ruined it. No tip. If fact, if there was such a thing as negative tip, this guy would get it.

Guy turns around to get the card machine. My right hand hovers towards the triplet. I commence the shot ritual. One, two, three. Bam-bam-bam. Done deal. Didn’t even blink. After each shot, I turn the shot glasses over. Upside down. Cinematic. I line them up neatly. Pedantic.

The big white guy beside me can’t believe what just happened. In no dimension is it possible that a gook can shot vodka that fast and unflinching. Lightning draw, like a gunslinger.

Guy comes back. Sees the shots gone. Glasses upside down. Empty. Can’t believe it. Maybe there was some part of him that thought I couldn’t drink that much. Could be me. Imagination. Fucker. Guy puts the machine down on the counter.

I say, ‘And gimme a vodka Red Bull too.’


So after fully immersing in the glory that is pounding three shots Vodka in succession I felt immensely confident. So full of hubris that I sought out to kill Giants. Giant Vodku that is. 

The following is an excerpt from my novel LLT, set in Thailand:

It is what Fury does when bored in Bangkok and the bro is to pussy to approach broads and Fury wants to have FUN:

Tiger made a face, shaking his head.  

‘No way man you can’t do it,’ Tiger said.  

I said nothing.   

‘You’re tired,’ he continued. ‘You just came off an airplane, have jetlag. We went to Skybar and Soi Cowboy. You took a nap in the cab.’  

I shrugged.  

I said, ‘I’ve done it before. Four shots. It’s easy.’ 

I hadnt. Just triplets. 

Tiger kept shaking his head and I kept ignoring him. I put out my Camel and  ushered to the bar. I looked at the bartender. Made eye contact. The bartender came close, with his head, tilting his chin up, just a bit. Like, Hey what’s up, what  can I get you?  

I said, ‘Four vodka shots.’  

‘How much?’ the guy asked.  

‘Four,’ I said, ever too loud, because of the smashing club music. Tiger still  had the face. The guy went away, grabbing the bottle, and shot glasses.   

I said to Tiger, ‘It’s a boring night. It’s not like we gonna pull in this boring  empty club. I’ll just shot these. And after that I’m gone. I’m done. We just approach  everything we see. Dance the night away. Go ape shit.’  

He simply nodded, sheepishly.   

The guy came back, and lined up the four shots of vodka.  

The Quadka.   

Honestly, I’d only done triple shots of vodka before. So this was in fact a  challenge for me. I know I never go down. But still. I’m always checking where my limits are. Pushing them. See if I can reach my maximum potential. Shots are  excellent weapons to test the defenses of your mind.   

Tiger took his phone out, swiped to video mode.  


I had lined up the  shots, neatly. In a row. One, two, three, four. I rehearsed the shot-taking technique,  in my head. Bam-bam-bam. Bam. Uh-huh. Yup. Easy peasy.   

The music was playing in the background. Something Caribbean. Light and  upbeat. Good fight walk-in music. Flowing. Chill.   

Tiger aimed the camera of his phone towards me, fingers of his other hand  high. Counting off. He said, ‘You ready?’ 

I waited.  

He started counting. 

‘One, two, three. We’re rolling.’  

Tiger said, again, now with the camera rolling, ‘You ready?’  

I said, ‘Hooa.’ 

 I took the first three shots in one hit. One, two, three. Bam-bam-bam. Each  shot glass, I turned around, putting them on the counter. I lined them up with the  fourth, in one neat line. I braced myself a bit for the last. Then bam.   

Tiger aimed the phone at me again. 

 I said, ‘Hooa.’  

Instantly, the shots took effect. I felt a warm burning sensation through my  upper body. My face heated up, too. And obviously everything that transcribed next  is kinda like a blur. So forgive the possible discrepancies, and random summation of  events.   

One thing was for sure. I was gonna be late for my podcast. With the  millionaire kickboxing world champion.  

There you have it. The Quadka was born. Four shots of Vodka, pounded in succession. 

Why is it called that?

Well the bros on Twitter love to conjure up memes. @NielsKNK says Brits call it a Quaddie, as he is a bartender, and these blokes frequented his bar, and continued to achieve said wonderful accomplishment of pounding four crystal glasses of crystal clear liquor. 

Then another dude, gone now from Twitter, I believe, Dax, he said, Let’s call it a Quadka. 

Therefore, Quadka was born. 

For some mystical reason they link the action of chugging Vodka with me. I have no clue as to why.

Honorable mention: @vladtheconqueror does this too, and he said add REDBULL. And you’re IN for one of THOSE nights. 

I agree.


I am a mathematician by heart, mad enGineer degree in pocket, and I see numbers. Where there is four. There is five. FIVE vodka shots. Not too shabby of an idea that is.

The following is also said in Bangkok, Thailand, excerpt from the same novel LLT:

I looked at the bartender and said, ‘Five vodka shots.’  

Tiger’s jaw dropped to the floor.   

What the fuck? 

His usual narrow eyes widened. Big black marbles now. Not disapproving  per se. But assessing. Like can Fury do this? Is he up to the task? After all these  days of being on a bender. Full party nonstop. Full out war. The late nights at the office. The not sleeping. The constant iron and sauna and pool sessions.  

Is this even human?  

Is he a man?  

Hehe, let’s see if he’s really the Fury.  


All that in just one look. Tiger said nothing but smirked.  

I said, ‘Want one?’  

‘Nah I’m good.’  

We were taking it easy.   

Tiger said, ‘I’m taking it easy. We were taking it easy.’  

‘I  am taking it easy.’  

The bartender was lining up the five shot glasses, on the wooden counter,  dark of color. Tiger said, ‘Ok, I’ll do one too. For fun. For sport.’  

I said to the bartender, ‘One more.’  

The tender filled up the glasses, with the clear liquid. One by one. One, two,  three, four, five. You could smell the vodka. Then he added a sixth. For fun, for sport.  

 I knew I could do triples. The Quadka wasn’t that far off. In terms of mental and liver strength. My will was set for that one. But a Five-ka I had never done that  before. I felt some nerves, and maybe blew it outta proportions, melodramatically.   

I said, ‘Tiger, it’s been an honor. This is five shots. Of vodka. If I die tonight, tell Nanna I love her. Love you too, man.’  

Tiger laughed and filmed.   

A Five-ka is just a triple, plus two shots. Or a Quadka, plus one. Or five  times one shot. It’s all perspective. And how you look at the task at hand means a  great deal. How you do one thing is how you do everything.   

Any seemingly insurmountable task can be achieved by breaking it down in  smaller doable tasks. How do you eat an elephant? By cutting it up in pieces.   

Therefore, my fingers grabbed the chill shot glass, with the clear liquid.  Vodka. I shot it. One. And instantly I shot the other two. Triple. One, two, three.  Two more to go. Easy. I shot one more. Quadka done. Hooa. Then it started to hit me. Couldn’t stop now. Gotta power on. Fuck it. Let’s get the motherfucking show  on the road. Fuck yeah. I braced myself. Sniffed. Taking in some extra oxygen, as some kind of buffer against the volatility of the final vodka shot. The task unsurmountable, the smaller tasks doable.   

The elephant, the cutting, the pieces.   

The Five-ka, the Quadka, the triples.  Just five shots.   


I remember lining up the shot glasses, with panache, and they were upside  down, cinematic. I snatched the last shot glass. Just three fingers. My technique wavering now. A bit shaky.   

I pound the last shot like a champ.  It felt like a sledgehammer was going ham on my brain. This intense white  hot pain. Like someone was trying to squeeze my brain to pulp, and let loose all its  juices. Fuck. I’m not squeamish and not a pussy wussy but this was excruciating. Like your head getting crushed between the door.   

I said to Tiger, ‘I think I’m gonna forget everything after this. And I’ll burnout soon.’ 

Once you set on to do a triple, Quadka, or Five-ka, a fictive candle gets lit.  As soon as the first shot enters your mouth, it’s game time. The fuse is burning, and you’re wasting the energy, and the buzz and the haze, and all the craze, the  shots give you, if you don’t take action. Dance, approach, chat. You do not sit around. So I set out to do something very stupid.


By now you must think me an alcoholic. I once googled it. If I dig into the loopholes I am not one, but consider me as you may. 

And you thought we were done with just FIVE shots, PFA!

For sake of full completion I have to add the time I thought I was going to die. One of the times. I’ve had these NDE, near death experiences, quite often. So often that they’ve been robbed of any significance they might have held, at least without me deeply navel gazing as to why I land in these situations at all.

As one bro points out, I am mocking my Guardian Angel too much. 

The following is a story of my in a three piece suit in the club in Brussels:

After I left the business meet with @theavtoritet, I went out for a drink with a friend of my cousin.

He didn’t know me well, and had been boozing all week. Therefore, he left me out and about, here’s a club.

It was such a gay club. No, not with gays. They are fun. This was just gay. Soy.

I drank and drank. And smoked and smoked.And at one point I had this marvelous idea:

Order vodka. Shots.

I went to the bar.

Said, Three shots.

He poured six shots. Six deadly potions of poison.

I said I said three.

Guy said happy hour still on. Dude what the fuck was almost midnight. What’s up with that?

He said for your friends.

Three, for three. Second ones free. Therefore six.

I’m Dutch. Free shit. Woohoo.

Then I looked left. Then right.

No one. No one to share. All gay.

Not even gays. I’m sharey. I’ve shared shit. Loads.

I shrugged thought fuck it.

I shot six shots.

Six-ka was born. 

I nearly died.


Here’s what happened. 

I felt an explosion in my brain. It hurt, not gonna lie. Imagine a headache, nah worse, more like a migraine I believe. A surge of pain laying dominance on your brain. Makes me smile, tho, how stupid it was. 

That said, vodka provides life force. Energy. And oh boy, I had energy. This stupid little student bar/club had one small rectangle. Its dancefloor. 

I took the stage. Danced my heart off. Talked to all the girls. Chatted up some guys, some kind of slav dude was there, can’t remember, good vibe tho. 

Then it was time for Death.

Feelings of mortality mixed in with sensations of nausea. I went to the John. Closed and locked the door behind me. 

I was not vomit-free anymore. The body is a smart tool. It recognizes when you are in dangers, and steps in. Vomiting is the evolutionary mechanism of your body saying nah-uh. Not today. It projects all the poison out of your stomach, pumping yourself dry, poison out. 

So the poison was out of my system, and in the toilet, then I dropped the lid and sat on the can, facing the door now. 

I was fatigued, and sleepy. Trouble keeping my eyes open. Very dizzy, to say the least. This is when The Darkness entered.

I went lights out, and felt the incessant urge to keep my eyes open, but the Darkness was swallowing me whole and shushing me to the Big Sleep. 

This is it, I thought. 

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. This is not true. I had this NOT happen to me another time. The action just makes you die and you die. 

But this time was different. This time I had time. Some. 

I thought of all my friends. Online, and in real life. All the brothers I had made. That I had fallen and now I had to leave them behind. 

I’ll miss them. 

Goodbye, Avtoritet. My bro. Goodbye, Niels. Goodbye, Benjamin. 

Goodbye all my bros overseas.

Such a shame, we were just getting started. The world was ours. 

I did not cry but was sad. Deeply. I thought I was dying slowly ebbing away. I was fighting it at the same time. Getting my body moving and up, but I sat, still.

Still alive MFs. 

I thought of my family. My mum and dad, my brother, my cousins. What had I done with my life? How had I impacted them, and they me? I think of these things often, but in the brink of death your whole life perception changes. 

Life becomes sweeter, more real. Vivid, vibrant, sparked to life again. Like its for keeps and it wasnt before. 

All the things left undone, the things left unsaid they pop up. It’s too late now. Never more. Wish I had done this different, said that thing different. 

Doesnt matter no more. 

I never cared about much more in life, I just thought of those two groups of people. Friends and family. And the third group. The women. 

The Madrilenian crush from Budapest, who saved me from a fistfight. True selflessness. 

The Slovenian love, who put my heart on fire. 

The Thai girl, who waits for me till the end of time.

It makes me smile. 

My eyes closes. 

All she wrote. 

After a deep slumber and a million dreamless eons of infinitesimal eternities, I awake. 

Back to life. 

I stood up and watered down from the faucet. 

I opened the door and left the club, and partied the night away, like nothing had happened.


The Full footage of all these acts can be found on my IG: @diamondroninfury 



Liked this Body of Work, these Feats of Titanium Liver, rivalling Hercules his Greatness even check out my twitter: @hooafury

Or my IG: @diamondroninfury

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