The Country from Hell
You smile vaguely at the girl, but shake your head firmly so there can be no mistaking what you mean. It feels a little cruel. More cruel for you than for her because the more you look at her the more you want her; but she's not yours to have. She glowers at you and turns away abruptly to join her friends on the dance floor. Well, one more disappointment down, millions more to go.
You aggressively demand another beer from your waiter, whom you've noticed has been talking to a thuggish looking character in the shadows, pointing to the empty bags and purses of all the stupid foreigners who seem to think it's ok to leave them there while they go dance. The way it works is simple. The waiters provide cover while the guy moves in, taking ipods or telephones or cameras or whatever other valuable crap he finds. When the tourist returns to the bar, sober and sad, looking for their valuables, they are offered the very lucky chance to buy back their own possessions. If they won't pay up, then, oh well, they missed their chance. Police? That seems to be the favorite word of every fucking tourist that pushes their way into your country. The police, pure and simple, don't give a fuck.
Another beer. Another one after that. The trapeze swings shiver hazily in the cool night air. Somewhere far away, you hear a traditional Iadian melody being played on an old pipe. It makes you think of the mountains and the stories your grandmother used to tell you.
Suddenly, the ugly American fucker with acne elbows you in the ribs, smiling maliciously at you.
" fun?!"
"Fun! Good time!" You revert back to your donkey smile, giving the boy a thumbs-up.
He lifts you forcibly under your arms. He's a lot bigger than you. He hisses something in your ear that you can't understand. Then he pushes you against one of the wide trapeze swings. You stumble into it, grasping the rope for support.
" show us! Iad .dance!" the boy shouts at you, pushing you against the swing. Glancing behind you, you see the whole group looking at you expectantly, their hungry wolf eyes glinting.
Shakily, you step up onto the trapeze swing. Your hands shake on the ropes. The whole world quivers unsteadily.
You see the thug move out of the corners and advance towards a pink designer purse on the bar. His hand strokes the leather gently, as though caressing a lover's thigh.
Gaining your balance on the swing, you look into the crowd and see the blonde girl standing there, smirking contemptuously at you.
The waiter brushes past you, pushing your swing as he says, "Well, why don't you show them some of your amazing Iadian acrobatics?" He disappears laughing into the shadows.
There are so many shadows here, seeming to roll in slowly from all sides. You take a gasping breath and push the trapeze forward. It creaks steadily, then moves back. You do this a couple times until you are swinging back and forth. The wind feels good on your sweaty forehead. You look out at all your new friends, laughing maniacally and waving!
You instantly lose your balance, dropping like an anvil to the concrete floor. You hear your shoulder crack. The shadows jump on you. You look up.
Laughing faces. Everywhere laughing faces. Someone pours a little beer on your mouth. You open your eyes.
In the corner, you see that same shadowy man lift something shiny and black out of the pink purse. The waiter appears purposefully from the kitchen.
You wave to the crowd and keep laughing. Your shoulder hurts so badly. Does it?
And in an instant, the lights and the music are all out. There is no one here anymore. Just you and the night and somewhere far off, that delicate little flute playing.
Clumsy hands grab you by your feet and drag you across the floor. The waiter smells like sweat and trash. Your head bounces against the concrete and you feel the cool night air on your feverish skin. Hands are all over you, searching, searching. You smile triumphantly up at the stars, as there is nothing to find on you but some sweat-wrecked old clothes and maybe a bruise or a cut or two. You keep laughing as he kicks you once in the side and disappears into the night.
The darkness comes back. An enveloping, total darkness.
You hear the sound of a horse and cart coming up the street. Turning your head, you see the tilted image of a man from the country, dressed in a black vest and a black felt hat. Your eyes meet.
"Good morning!" he shouts to you, tipping his hat in your direction. His cart roars along, the crates in the back shaking unsteadily as he passes. His laughter dies out into the morning. Again, everything is quiet.
You don't know if you've shut your eyes or if the world is just that dark. You drift off to the last strains of that melancholic pipe playing somewhere in the night.
You aggressively demand another beer from your waiter, whom you've noticed has been talking to a thuggish looking character in the shadows, pointing to the empty bags and purses of all the stupid foreigners who seem to think it's ok to leave them there while they go dance. The way it works is simple. The waiters provide cover while the guy moves in, taking ipods or telephones or cameras or whatever other valuable crap he finds. When the tourist returns to the bar, sober and sad, looking for their valuables, they are offered the very lucky chance to buy back their own possessions. If they won't pay up, then, oh well, they missed their chance. Police? That seems to be the favorite word of every fucking tourist that pushes their way into your country. The police, pure and simple, don't give a fuck.
Another beer. Another one after that. The trapeze swings shiver hazily in the cool night air. Somewhere far away, you hear a traditional Iadian melody being played on an old pipe. It makes you think of the mountains and the stories your grandmother used to tell you.
Suddenly, the ugly American fucker with acne elbows you in the ribs, smiling maliciously at you.
" fun?!"
"Fun! Good time!" You revert back to your donkey smile, giving the boy a thumbs-up.
He lifts you forcibly under your arms. He's a lot bigger than you. He hisses something in your ear that you can't understand. Then he pushes you against one of the wide trapeze swings. You stumble into it, grasping the rope for support.
" show us! Iad .dance!" the boy shouts at you, pushing you against the swing. Glancing behind you, you see the whole group looking at you expectantly, their hungry wolf eyes glinting.
Shakily, you step up onto the trapeze swing. Your hands shake on the ropes. The whole world quivers unsteadily.
You see the thug move out of the corners and advance towards a pink designer purse on the bar. His hand strokes the leather gently, as though caressing a lover's thigh.
Gaining your balance on the swing, you look into the crowd and see the blonde girl standing there, smirking contemptuously at you.
The waiter brushes past you, pushing your swing as he says, "Well, why don't you show them some of your amazing Iadian acrobatics?" He disappears laughing into the shadows.
There are so many shadows here, seeming to roll in slowly from all sides. You take a gasping breath and push the trapeze forward. It creaks steadily, then moves back. You do this a couple times until you are swinging back and forth. The wind feels good on your sweaty forehead. You look out at all your new friends, laughing maniacally and waving!
You instantly lose your balance, dropping like an anvil to the concrete floor. You hear your shoulder crack. The shadows jump on you. You look up.
Laughing faces. Everywhere laughing faces. Someone pours a little beer on your mouth. You open your eyes.
In the corner, you see that same shadowy man lift something shiny and black out of the pink purse. The waiter appears purposefully from the kitchen.
You wave to the crowd and keep laughing. Your shoulder hurts so badly. Does it?
And in an instant, the lights and the music are all out. There is no one here anymore. Just you and the night and somewhere far off, that delicate little flute playing.
Clumsy hands grab you by your feet and drag you across the floor. The waiter smells like sweat and trash. Your head bounces against the concrete and you feel the cool night air on your feverish skin. Hands are all over you, searching, searching. You smile triumphantly up at the stars, as there is nothing to find on you but some sweat-wrecked old clothes and maybe a bruise or a cut or two. You keep laughing as he kicks you once in the side and disappears into the night.
The darkness comes back. An enveloping, total darkness.
You hear the sound of a horse and cart coming up the street. Turning your head, you see the tilted image of a man from the country, dressed in a black vest and a black felt hat. Your eyes meet.
"Good morning!" he shouts to you, tipping his hat in your direction. His cart roars along, the crates in the back shaking unsteadily as he passes. His laughter dies out into the morning. Again, everything is quiet.
You don't know if you've shut your eyes or if the world is just that dark. You drift off to the last strains of that melancholic pipe playing somewhere in the night.
