Mixed Stories

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Τρίτη 23 Ιουλίου 2013

City Enspelled part 2



He was a man around his mid thirties. Unshaved, in his pajamas, obviously waken up from our hammering on the door. His expression wasn’t friendly, not at all.
He took a look at us and I don’t think he liked of what he saw.
-                     Well fuck you James, I am going back to sleep.
-                     Hey I didn’t even got a chance to say hi!
-                     As I said fuck you. Its late, I am tired and you stink of alcohol.
And make a motion of closing the door. James interrupted him.
-                     Hey man please don’t, look we wont bother you we came to see your friend.
Our soon to be host let a big sight
-                     Come on in.
-                     Thanks man we owe you one.
-                     You owe me many, he is in his room probably watching TV, I don’t know why but for the last three days he doesn’t do nothing else but watch that stupid box.
-                     Cool we go in? Sorry for waking you up.
-                      You aren’t sorry so fuck of you and your friend.
-                     Ah! by the way let me introduce you, from here my old friend Eugenios Dante.
-                     Hi!
-                     Hi, if he is an old friend how come you never mentioned him?
-                     I met him a couple of hours ago in a bar.
-                     That explains it.
-                     Eugenios let me introduce you to our jackass of a host mr Jonathan Stephenson we call him Jon or jerk.
-                     How do you do? (I gave my hand) sorry for the drunkes of the hour.
He shaked my hand.
-                     He is a comedian is he? Nice he will feat right in with the rest of the freaks. Now if you excuse me.
With that he left us, went in to a room and closed the door.
-                     He usually is a nice guy, he gets pissed though when we wake him up. Wait here for me to grab a beer from the fridge, do you want one?
-                     No I am cool (and I wanted my head as clear as possible).
-                     Suit your self.
While he was gone I cheked out the place. Surprisingly it wasn’t a mess, it seemed clean, the furniture wasn’t anything special but filled the space nice.
  
-                     Here, take it.
-                     I said I don’t want beer.
-                     I heard you, take it anyway.
And with that he went for our mysterious friend’s door and knocked.
-                     Come on in its open.

A neatly tied room opens before us, under the light of the candles it gave a airy felling. The candles were arranged in a circle on the floor in to that circle with his back on us while looking at TV was sitting cross-legged the most strange man I had ever saw.

As he was sitting I couldn’t get a measure of his high, later I judged him to be around 5’3’’ and 5’7’’. He had long hair of brown color. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

Also the candles were burning blue and green flames.

The room was relatively empty. Just a bed and a locker besides the TV that was on the floor, carpet was covering the floor from side to side.

-                     Hey man watch up, were did you get the candles?
-                     Hi, James how are you today? I got the candles from a neighbor, handcrafted and of excellent quality. Who is your friend over there?
-                     Hi sir my name is Eugenios Dante, I met James tonight and he brought me here, I hope we don’t bother you.
-                     No don’t wary about that I was just checking to see if magic is used via TV to control the masses or pass messages that go unnoticed  by the actively thinking part of your brain.
-                     What? That was the best I could come up at the moment. James did better.
-                     Well? Is it?
-                     Thankfully no. But I do feel more inclined to do stupid things just to be away from this devilish box.
-                     So what’s next?
-                     I don’t know I might try to check that Internet thing that you have going on.

I looked them numbed by the alcohol and by the seriousness that they seemed to give at their conversation.
- Say James can you help with the candles?
- Sure, what I do?
- put them out and let them near the locker.
Fore a moment I thought of volunteering to help but there was barely enough room for 2 to move in the room, so I waited leaning on the door for them to blow out and gather the candles.
I still hadn’t saw this mans face, he was still sitting on the floor and with fast motions was gathering what candles were in front of him, putting out the flame and neatly place them along the locker.
He had gathered half the candles and was standing up before James had done a third of them.
He turned to me and for the first time I saw his face.
The first thing one noticed about him was his eyes. They were old eyes, those were eyes that had seen staff, beautiful staff, horrible staff and they weren’t tired from what they saw, there weren’t satisfied yet, his eyes gave a sense of hunger, a longing for something and as he looked at me those eyes got a spark in them.
- Hi again, forgive my manners, I am not accustomed to have company here, other than James that is. Allow me to introduce my self my name is Zosimos Zaman I am freelance writer, I write some columns in the magazines “occult for you” and “the magic of tarot”, no? Well I am also preparing a book but its along way from done at this moment.
- Wow that’s great! What is it about?
- To tell you the truth is about humans.
I waited for explanation or for him to add something that would give his sentence a sense but he didn’t seemed inclined to add anything and I dint want to push.
- Tell me do you play poker?
- I play from time to time yes?
- Great are you up for a game? Not real money of course.
- Well yeah sure.
- Neat, make your self comfortable while I get the deck.
James had ended with the candles and was getting some pillows from the locker he put them on the floor and sat on them.
-                         Come on, come on, sit, here take the pillow.
I sat with my back on the bed and made my self comfortable.
- Are you sure we don’t bother at that hour?
- No don’t worry, Zosi never sleeps?
- He suffers from insomnia or something?
- No, nothing like this.
Before he could add anything Zosimos was back with a deck in one hand and a beer in the other.
-             So, he said, who shuffles?
Five games later every one was a lot more relaxed.
And by everyone I mean me, the other two were comfortable from the start. We used chips to keep score and it was obvious that Zosimos was ahead. It wasn’t that he won every game, it was more that he was losing less than the rest of us, always knowing were to push and were to fold, always making casual small talk and cracking really funny jokes been in other words an excellent host.
It was around 04:00 am and a sense of contend started to creeping up for me. That’s when Zosimos told us:
-                     Want to spicy the game up?
-                     What to you mean? Play for money?
-                     No man, play for stories.
-                     Stories?
-                     Yeah you know? Stories, secrets, memories, precious to us moments, you know.
-                     What would be the point of that, for us to learn each others stories?
-                      Yeah and no. Its kind more complicated than that, and of course magic will be involved.
-                     You kidding right? Magic? What magic? Hocus pocus staff? Magic doesn’t exist.
-                     Well that’s all good then, nothing to worry about. With what shall we start with? Secrets? First love? Embarrassing moments?
-                     That’s bullshit, why would we say any of those things to a stranger?.
-                     Well that’s the thrill, if you lose you have to tell something personal to a stranger, there lies the danger and with it the thrill.
-                     How would you know if I lied?
-                     I wouldn’t but that’s bad sportsmanship from your part.
A mirth appeared in my face, maybe it was the ridiculous of the situation but what the hell it sounded fun.
- How do we decide who lost the round?
- The one who lost the most at that round obviously, if it’s a draw both people get to share with us.
- Fine lets do this, who will chose the subject?
- We each draw a card, the one with the highest value chouses what’s at stake.
James got to chouse first.
-                 Ok I will go with embarrassing moment, lets play.
I have to admit I enjoyed this game a little more, in the back of my mind I was debating the merits of saying a true story or a false if I happened to loose, eventually I decide in the spirit of sportsmanship to say a true story and then I lost. That happens when you don’t pay attention.
I sat back and prepared my self for the telling, my co players had a look of anticipation.
-           ok! Well, that happened way back at elementary school, I was to be part of chorus that would ride on a chariot in a parade, the theme was ancient Rome and the teachers that were organized it told us to dress us in red t-shirt.
            Suddenly I was back there seeing my self, a young kid with a messed hair, excited for his parade, I saw me as I runned after the school to my home and told my mother for the teachers request, we were preparing the chariot as an after school project the whole year, it was a big deal for me, then as I talked time moved forward following the telling of my story, there I was at my room the morning of the parade, getting ready, asking my mother for the t-shirt and I once again felt my stomach tying in a knot as I noticed that the t-shirt was red with white stripes but keeping silent, and later when I was told from my teachers to go change and being confused as I hadn’t time to go home to change, none of the teachers had time for me, the anxiety build once again in me as I was trying to talk to the teachers and the only respond that I got was a glance and a go change. I ended up  staying out of the parade and, frustrated and embarrassed I went home and cried in the arms of my mother.
             I awoke from the dream. Once again I was at the small room of Zosimos, certain that I hadn’t move from the spot I was shocked from the intensity of my memory.
            I excused my self end went to the bathroom to throw some water on my face, James started shuffling the deck.
            Once I got back we started to play once again, this time the pay up would be a failed love.
I focused on my game and managed to win that round, the one who lost was James.
- Ok guys give me a moment to gather my thoughts, could you bring me a beer? Cool, I got it.
- This happened a long time ago.
- I was in my teens then I was hanging out with some folks and one day I was told that  we would go to a pub and a girl would be invited so one of the kids could hit on her.
            Again I felt that strange sensation, without lousing connection with my surroundings I was immersed in the story telling, I could almost make the faces of those kids and see them as the went to the pub, I could feel the excitement of James and how proud he was for his friend that would try to hit at such a beauty, so he talked with her and kept inviting him to enter the conversation but he seemed somewhat reluctant, finally he gave up and there rest of the night tried not to focus to hard at her breasts, I could almost taste the beer and hear the music in the background, I am sure I felt the excitement in his heart when he saw her again few days later and had learned his friend wasn’t interested in her, he managed to get her phone that day. Butterflies were flying in my stomach as he asked here on a date and the warmth of the room was asphyxiating for me as for him when he confessed her and she rejected him.
            The room came again in perspective.
Silently we began our third game. I didn’t play to win, I played for Zosimos to louse.
The game stretched for a while and a round of beers was needed, as James went to get them I looked our host again under this new light.
-                     So that’s magic?
-                     What did you expect? Fireballs and storms coming from the tip of my fingers.
-                     I didn’t expected anything to tell the truth, what else you can do?
-                     Oh a trick or two.
-                     You will louse this round I will make sure of that, are you planning to cheat on your memory?
-                     Why would I do that? It spoils the game for all, me included.
-                     Hey guys, the beer arrived, now lets end this.
It was indeed Zosimos who lost, we again draw cards to choose the theme of the memory, I won.
The memory would be hope.
            I have to admit that I was tired and wanted something nice for last, the beer, the late of the hour and yes the return of my old memory had me exhausted, James story didn’t helped, I just wanted to end the night with a happy memory.
            This time I left my self to be completely cared over by the magic, the first thing that hit me was the cold sensation of the sea water, I saw Zosimos trying to stay afloat amidst the wreckage that once was a fish boat, he was young and scared and moments ago had saw his father being drawn to the depths with his leg tied up by a rope that he had left uncoiled, panic had overflowed his senses only a small part of his brain, the one that cared above all else for survival was still working, he was holding on to a piece of wood, trying to stay afloat scream for help and cry at the same moment, all was lost he knew, his world was lost, nothing would ever be the same, he was alone now and suddenly the world was a big place, he let go. His hands simple stop holding the wood and his feet stop kicking. Nothing was going through his mind, nothing at all. The sea accepted him in her embrace and the world became quiet as he started to sink. Suddenly something touched his back, strong arms grabbed him and he was pushed to the surface, he jerked and tried to get free, to turn to see what was holding him, as he moved around he got  a glimpse of the impossible, his father was holding him and just like that he was brave again, he stopped his movement, got a grip of direction and started to swim to the surface along with his dad.  The world was back on straight and his dad would take care of everything.
            I looked around at the room and realized that I had tears in my eyes.
Not much was said after, we finished our beers while making small talk and broke it up. The next day I felt refreshed, like I had a goods night sleep, at some point I even called the girl from the bar for a date, she accepted.

Τρίτη 9 Ιουλίου 2013

TINY LITTLE LIGHT

This story is brought to you by a Konstantine Paradias.
When he isn't busy being awesome he keeps a blog that you can view here.
Thanks for the story man!

Konstantine Paradias is a Greek science fiction and fantasy writer. His short stories in English have been published on OHP's Petulant Parables Anthology, Breathless Press' Shifters anthology, EveryDayFiction.com, Schlock! Magazine, Static Movement's Behind Closed Doors and Long Pig anthologies. His first fantasy ebook, Stone Cold Countenance, has been published by bibliocracy. com.


I started collecting secrets when I was just six years old. It began when Jeannie Wilks, the blond-haired girl with the ocean-blue eyes leaned over her desk and whispered in my ear:
“I soaked my stepmom’s catnip in bleach this morning” and then leaned right back, a gret big smile on her face. I did not say a word at the time, only nodded and looked back to the blackboard, where the teacher was busy inscribing the alphabet, teaching us the secrets behind language that need not be spoken to be comprehended.
I tried talking to Jeannie again, when Bob Holding walked up to me during recess, pulled me by the arm and whispered:
“I put lighter fluid in my dad’s whiskey bottle last night, when he passed out. You think he’ll choke on it?” again, he did not stop or wait for my reply. He simply kept on walking, as if he was oblivious to the power this secret had given me over him.
It happened twice more that day, little secrets that were passed to me during class. Joe Schmidt had a crush on the teacher. Eleanor Brisby was infatuated with her babysitter. I merely nodded and accepted these secrets, stashing them in some dark recess of my brain.
When I returned home that day, I did not feel the secrets crush me but I did not forget them either. Like spiders, they spun their webs inside my skull and dwelt there in peace.
At dinner, I asked my mother what a secret was. She forked the beans inside her mouth, chewed thoughtfully for a while, then said:
“A secret is something that is shared by people who want nobody else to know. Why do you ask, sweetie?” she said and smiled at me. When I asked if it’s bad to keep secrets, my mother arched her brows the way she always did when she knew I had been naughty and asked:
“Depends. If someone has, for example, taken cookies from the cookie jar before dinner or if they have cheated on their history quiz, then yes, it is bad. Has anyone you know done that kind of thing? Hmm?” she asked and leaned closer, her eyes looking into my heart and looking through my childish mind.
I assured her that no such thing had happened. I only feigned ignorance and did my very best to finish my peas (which I hate as a dish to this day) in an effort to appease her.
By the time I was seven, the entire class had entrusted me with a dangerous little tidbit of information. I’d found out about secret kisses by the riverbank, stolen toys and game cartridges broken out of malice. I’d learned about the secret hate twin siblings felt for each other and in one case heard Morgan Lee’s terrible little side surfacing, a secret self that needed to be let out, smothered by cuteness and parental conditioning.
Like a trustworthy listener, a proper psychologist or an excellent priest, I held the secrets and nodded silently, filing them in the back of my brain where they multiplied and thrived, living in perfect harmony. Unlike those professionals however, I did not promise to alleviate their pains or offer forgiveness. I merely gave them a vessel for their secrets; a safe place where they would remain unspoken until the end of my days.
But the really important secrets, those lethal growths of the soul that could only be excised by being spoken aloud, were not shared to me until I was eight.
It was during P.E. class, when I broke from the cluster of children that were busy tossing balls around, clawing and pushing in an attempt to win at a loosely-defined game of football that I saw our teacher sitting in a corner bench, her eyes staring madly into space, her lips muttering endlessly in a repeating pattern.
I approached her then, thinking that should she become agitated, I could use the excuse of a bathroom break. But as I walked closer and saw the familiar red stains on the cuff of her sweater, standing out against her coffee-colored skin, I knew and I was afraid.
“I stabbed the cheating son of a whore. I stabbed him thirteen times in his belly and then I stuck the knife inside his lying mouth. He’s on the kitchen floor since last night and I don’t know what to do.” she said and by the minute she was done speaking her secret, the terror had lifted from her heart and returned to her duties, restoring order to the jungle of the playground.
The secret had nearly crushed me, its terrible weight pushing every other secret down, its bloated belly resting against my mind. I could hear it lick its lips and click its teeth inside my thoughts but I was too afraid to let it out.
Our P.E. teacher gave herself up the next morning, openly admitting the brutal homicide of her unfaithful husband. But the secret stayed in my mind, its terrible power undiminished.
I became afraid of secrets for a very long time and refused to hear them. I avoided my friends and shunned every adult as I struggled to keep my mind to myself. It took me two years until I had found the way to quell the beast in my mind and I did it thus:
Closing my eyes, I imagined that I could look inside my head and that what I saw weren’t magical fields or impossible creatures or strange lands and other manifestations of escapism. What I saw instead were archive drawers, rows upon rows of them each unbelievably tall and stretching out toward every direction, to infinity. Each drawer was labeled with a name and a classification of a secret (from harmless to horrible) and inside each drawer were stacks upon stacks of paper that were just bursting outward every time I would open each one.
There was order in my mind and calm and above all, silence, each secret kept inside its own little holding pen to be content and contained. Every secret, except the harmful ones.
My P.E.’s teacher wasn’t the only terrifying secret I’d ever kept. Even though I did my best to avoid it, some of them would still slip past my guard and inside my ear before I even knew it. I would cross the street and a woman, friend of my mother’s would tell me how the child she bore was not her husband’s. I’d take the bus and the conductor would tell me how he fed his ex-wife’s cat to his dogs, to make her pay.
The harmful secrets I’d keep in an entirely different part of my mind. It was a large chamber that was built in the furthestmost reaches, its walls hewn from the living rock, iron chains dangling from the ceiling with links thicker than a man’s arm. It was closed off from my archiving haven by a great wooden door reinforced with iron, an exact copy of the door from my Young Kings playset, barred and bolted and locked. There I put and chained the harmful secrets, let them snarl and scream and claw, to torment each other for eternity.
By the time I was eighteen, the archiving system was filled. The drawers, magically vast though they were, were already bursting at the seams. The vast space inside my head which once seemed infinite, now was barely adequate. I found myself desperately trying to reminisce now, but failing miserably, stumbling on secret upon secret trusted to me by others.
It was on my 18th birthday that I discovered that things were nearing collapse. I opened my eyes one day and rushed out of my bed, looking for the cat’s feeding dish, so I could throw away the bleach-soaked catnip before she poisoned herself with it. It took me an hour to realize that we did not have a cat and in fact had never had pets of any sort.
By midday, I was searching frantically in the liquor cabinet, looking for my father’s whiskey bottle so I could replace it before he accidentally swallowed the lighter fluid I had spiked it with, before I remembered that my father had died of cancer before I was even born.
I tried to walk off my confusion, finding a secluded little bench in the snow-covered December park, when one of the policemen on patrol strolled up to me and said:
“I knew the son of a bitch had killed my little girl, so I planted the razor he’d killed her with in his house. I made sure I was there, when he got the chair. Pulled the switch myself.”
I screamed and ran away from him, deeper inside the park, among the trees. It was there that I met a girl, crying. I tried to swerve, to avoid her, when she said:
“I just left him in the dumpster, my little baby boy”
Her words froze me in place, even as she immediately stopped crying. She got up, wiped the tears from her eyes and gave me a smile, the weight lifted from her shoulders and deposited in my mind without my consent.
By the time the sun went down I had been Joe Schmidt and had sneaked a peek inside our elementary school teacher’s bedroom, her elderly form somehow appealing to me, spurred by some leftover infatuation. I was Eleanor Brisby for a moment, as I walked up to her babysitter, now a married woman and a mother, and looked at her with uncomprehending lust.
I was my P.E teacher at 5 p.m., as the sun went down, looking at a spot in the kitchen floor, seeking the remains of a chalk outline where my husband had lain, stabbed thirteen times in the belly and the mouth.
It was a good thing my mother had been away that day, or she’d have seen me speak in different voices, looking to right the wrongs others had committed so many years ago. By the time I had reached into my mind and had managed to stop the endless rioting of secrets and reset the padlock on the door where the dark things were kept, I was exhausted.
It was at this moment, as I desperately needed sleep that my friends visited me to celebrate my birthday. But I use this term loosely. They were no more my friends than acquaintances, enjoying the privilege of burdening me with their terrible secrets for years, secure in the thought that I would never release them.
I felt bile build up in my throat at the sight of them, a desperate need to let out the terrible knowledge and expose their true selves, the sides of them they didn’t dare to divulge, even to themselves, never mind to each other. I sweated and panted as they entered my home and gave me their best wishes. Their touch was repulsive, now that I could no longer hide their secrets from myself.
Clara kissed me on the cheek and on her lips I could feel the touch of a hundred men whose hearts she had broken. Jeremy shook my hand and there was the heat of his siblings’ cheeks, tormented and beaten by their bully of a brother. There was Simon, the closeted homosexual who used his suppressed urges against every one he had ever known, poisoning the waters with every word he spoke. Then came Jason, the racist; Carmilla, who heard something bump against her car and smash against her windshield as she was crossing a back road and didn’t even stop to check even though she knew it was too small to be a deer and too big to be a dog.
They were halfway through singing Happy Birthday when it came out of my mouth, a sweet release of acidic hatred, a venom that I didn’t know existed within me:
“Thank you Clara, how’s the hubby? Still suffering from those crabs you gave him? Jeremy, how’s your sister? I heard she finally got away from you, you sick tormenting bastard. Simon, how’s my favorite drag queen? Still hate Michael for turning you down? Carmilla I was wondering: how did you get the blood off the windshield?”
And then it began, the outpouring, the terrible cataclysm of hate and horror. The drawers burst open one by one in perfect synchronization with a symphony of rage that was echoing in my mind. It felt like some sort of inverted musical, where the pinches of violins and the bellowing of trumpets heralded horrors instead of release.
First came the horrible secrets, bursting from the vault of my mind, fluttering down my skull and through my mouth. I dialed numbers I hadn’t dialed for ages, let them slip through the telephone lines and knew, by the time I set the phone down, that a little taste of Hell was erupting on the other end.
Then the harmful secrets came out, slithering like snakes, as I walked across the street of my neighborhood, screaming them for the world to hear; the terrible people who had made me a victim to their secrets hot on my heels.
Lastly, the harmless ones, that I whispered to them and made me smile. But as I stood there, the archives of my mind emptied, the drawers broken, it was then that the padlocks of the terrible secrets gave way and I knew that inside their containment, the chains had rusted into nothing and the walls had given way. I thought of the doors bursting open and the bloated things inside move.
I let them out in the police station, at the desk clerk, unable to control them. I saw the woman behind the counter look at me even as she wrote them down in horror, as she found out about the unspeakable vices of priests, the revenge schemes of policemen, the hidden crimes of teachers and doctors alike.
I let them all out and by the time I was done, my mind was empty and I was alone inside my head, with my memories and thoughts. I collapsed and slept on the floor of the police station.
I was thankful for the cell they’d provided for me when I woke up the next day. I could already smell the taste of bile and poison in the air and knew that my hometown was struck with a terrible disease: the disease of secrets unleashed. I imagined them released now, coiling long snake tails round the backs of every man and woman, their fingers forcing their eyes and mouths open, pinning down their arms so they could not shut themselves out from the world.
I did not feel regret or remorse. I was dragged from one police investigation to another, from one court trial to the next and there I was, testifying and turning secrets into well-known truths. By the end of the year, my home town had turned into a quiet little Hell. By the summer of the next, it was empty as if the soil had been poisoned by pesticides and the water by deadly contaminants.
My mother took this disaster as bad as everyone else and blamed me. I do not blame her. After all, it was I who tore down the place she had lived and loved. But I have no regrets. People do not entrust me their secrets now. If anything, they avoid me. I have found myself enjoying this isolation, this silence and calm both inside and outside my mind.
I sleep now and dream that I am myself, untainted by their secrets. It’s lonely, but it’s peaceful.
 

 

City Enspelled part 1



-         Say, you want to see something cool?
The correct answer to that is always no. Especially if it comes from a drunken than you dude whom you met a bar at the side of the town that you don’t frequent.

-         Dude, sure.

In my defense I have to say that I thought he meant a strip club.

We paid and got in to a taxi, he gave directions and off we were.

The scenery changed and not for the best as we left downtown. I was still sure on my strip club theory.

Have you ever noticed that after something strange, different or bad happens and you look back on it you always notice then that you had a strange feeling that day, all day, long before that anomaly occur.

Looking back now, I definitely had a feeling that day. A knot at my stomach. A cold sweat regardless of the temperature. It was all and all a bad day to begin with.

So I decided to do something about it.

I called some friends to meet at our regular place, a pub fifteen minutes from my apartment, at 09:20 p.m..

They all said yes and five minutes before our meeting (09:15 p.m. for those of you that are bad at math) they called to cancel, all of them.
Jerks.

By the time their calls came in I had already half hour at the place, that translates to roughly one liter of beer. It wasn’t my best day.

So I get the message and I get pissed. How could they cancel at the last minute? Screw these guys, I can have fun by my self. So I leave the place and decide to do something extreme. To go downtown at a BAR and drink… something other than beer, a cocktail or whisky, or maybe I would event try Vodka. Who knew? I might even meet a girl there?

It so nice to be drunk and full of hope.

So a got in to a taxi, told him to go at a bar downtown thinking that he would know a cool one. And by God I wasn’t disappointed.

The building on the outside wasn’t anything worth mentioning, only a board that wrote, “Danys Corner”, only a bottle next to it gave you a clue of what corner it was, no that was wrong, it was also the door.

It’s funny how some things stick to your mind no mater what. They are usually things you don’t notice at first, a word, a gesture, an item. When you see them or hear them they don’t look important but they stick back at the corners of your mind that you can’t reach and clean.

Yes it was a shitty day, one of the many of a month, but I bet my kidney that no mater where I would go, no mater what I had done if I had not passed that door things would go as they did.

It was a heavy looking door, metal and wood in a unique combination, if you were searching for a place to drink you would notice the door or else you would walk right past.

I paid the cab and went in, anxious for an adventure.

It was a great place, like it came out from a movie.

Mostly empty except some loners (male and female ones), some of them as I discovered later had elevate the keep-your-eyes-to-the-drink-while-still-watch-everything technique into an art form.

A smell of stale liquor hit my nose as I entered, mixed with the tobacco and a faint aroma of roses.

The floor was a wooden, not the shiny new wood, it was old and used a lot, it had gone all the way to dirty and back more times than anyone could count.

All of the patrons lifted their eyes as I entered and looked at my as if I had just entered their bath naked and with an erection.

The only ones excluded from this team activity were the barman and a guy on stage that was trying to play a song about a guitar and how she weeps.

I did my best to ignore them. I walked to the bar and sat.

-         What can I bring you?
-         Oh. Well. Em. Truth is I don’t really know, what do you suggest?
-         First time huh? Well have you been drinking before you came?
-         Yes, some beer.
-         So I should better start you with a Tequila Sunrise.
-         Sounds good.
-         You have no ideas what it is, do you?
-         No, not the faintest.
A sight came from the barman.
- When, oh God will my talent be recognized?
Someone was in the mood to answer.
- When you stop the whining and start making some drinks that’s when.
That came from a newcomer that was taking a seat at the bar next to me as he said that.
-         Well fuck you James, drink your Vodka and keep it shut.
-         I love you to big man.

James A. Wilson.
Or as I soon found out a trouble firmly attached to a pair of legs.
He worked at a company that as I understood was not far from the bar, he was a photocopy/go-fets-my/throw-the-thrush man. He made a habit of coming to the bar to catch a drink before going home, after a while he change it to a hobby, as some people collect coins he was collecting cocktails, trying a different cocktail each day that was his thing. That was also started five years ago and nothing had changed since. 5' 10 with a weak physic, and a face as that looked as if he was always in the process of sobering up.

Its almost funny how someone that is always uptight can relax over a drink with some small talk. I am not really social so talking about my ex girlfriends with a guy I just met was a first.
At some point when we got somewhat loud about relationships a couple of ladies came to offer their opinion.

Three hours and seven cocktails later, the ladies had to leave (their phone numbers managed to stay though) and  that’s when the big question came.
-         Say, you want to see somethink cool?
And the answer.
-         Dude, sure.

The first stop was at a fast food store, they served meat that’s for sure but I cant really say what animal it was. We ate something that had meat with a lot of bread. We got it down in our throats wit plenty of water and I was starting at this point to become more alert again, still drunk but more aware of it than before.

It started to rain. A light rain that felt for some reason appropriate.

We called a cab and of we were again.
The possibility of strip club was diminished in my mind but I wanted to see were we would end up.

Some thinks about the Great and Glorious me.
My name is Eugenios Dante (yeah my parents hated me).
I am a healthy, twenty eight years old, white man with brown hair and a face that some ladies find handsome, 5' 05 and going to the gym at least three times the week (a lot of free time), you don’t call me beefed up and neither wimpy. I am by nature a person of routine, same coffee every day, same workout, same amount of work (I can’t really manage that but I try), same pub all the years and a stable schedule. But there are some times, hours usually or minutes that I crave for something new and exciting. It was at this night right after the last mouthful of meat that the craving for adventure came to me.
Not one of my brightest moments.
I went with James not knowing what I would see or what would happen, the strip club had left my mind along with most of the fog of the alcohol.

To recap.
At 02:30 a.m. I enter for the second time in the last hours in a cab with James A. Wilson for another unknown destination while be…. not completely drank.

            We got out from the cab at an old apartment building, in a shady neighborhood. The stench from garbage and urine hit me like a hammer, it took a considerable effort from my part not to puke. We went to the door (an old thing that once was pretty, with holes covered by duck tape were glass once was) and tried to open it. It was locked.
-         Hey man sorry to be a piss but were we going?
-         I told you some place cool. He said while he punched the tape which of course gave in allowing him to put his arm in and open the door form the inside.

We went up the stairs and I was starting to freaking out, my mind was at work furiously trying to figure what was it about to see. The most possible answer that was coming to my mind had to do with drugs and I didn’t like drugs, not one bit.

 When James finally stop in front of a door and knocked I had half a mind on start running down the stairs, what kept me was part my spirit of adventure, part headache, part a need to piss and part the realization that a one legged man hoping would go faster than me.

It took a while for a muffled answer to come from the door and a while longer for some one to open the door.