Pedro and Arkady's Night Out (Fiction by Daniel Smallegange)

Another place, another adventure. This time a minor scuffle after Pedro, pretty fucked up Pedro on peyote, the secret weapon in question, hits on the acquaintances of some rather unfriendly biker types at a pool bar. They are unceremoniously roughed up and thrown out of the joint and thrown into an alley after taking a few punches for good measure. Fortunately a new place, the next place, one of them hidden, unnamed and likely illegal places, is located in the same said alley, just down a little ways. They slowly rise and dust themselves off. Pedro pukes in a garbage bin. They walk if off, shake it off, and are soon in good shape, spirits and style, discuss the play 'Doctor Faustus' as they perambulate, inhaling on sweet tasting carcinogens. They amble on past an Asian dude with a pool cue backed up against a wall. He is using it to fend off a group of four drunk and angry men who've got him cornered, some of whom carry broken bottles in tight fist grips. They keep urging him to set it down, that pool cue, set it down and fight them all like a man. Against the four of them he wisely chooses to disregard this advice. Pedro and Arkady slow and muse it over. Wiser heads prevail.

'Not our fight Arkady.

'No. 'Sides, I'm a lover not a fighter… a drinker, not a die-er. Besides again, the bar's just up there.'

They leave the Asian to his fate. He does seem to be holding them at bay for the time being. Soon they've arrived at a monstrous and scarred and seemingly sealed industrial metal door. After getting the once over from an equally monstrous, scarred and very surly doorman they are ushered shoved down a stairs to a girl who takes a rather extensive, but not unexpected, door fee.

They are on the dance floor. And they are still up for it and lapping it up, if slightly more sloppily. Evidence in this on the newly acquired beer stains on shirt fronts and sweaty necks/chests. Pedro is kung fu fighting. He is mentally smashing some imagined sycophants while Arkady is seducing them with those pretty lowered eyes of his. Come hither gestures and then pulling away. They dance more than drink and exude sensual vice and glee. Seclusion with a man. Seclusion with a woman. More cocaine. Arkady is laughing, laughing, laughing!

More new friends. Soon to be enemies. Many shots of whiskey. 'In solidarity for before' Arkady also pukes. Angry people in their faces, in the clouds. Rain and tears. Humidity. Horizons of trouble dawning along with the soon to be sun outside.

Runny noses must be caught. They lead them everywhere, those two ruffians Pedro and Arkady. Coke and uppers and pills they don't even know what the fuck are, but had been laying around and 'must be sure to do something' and 'better to use them soon afore they go bad'. And 'we gots to do something to countervene and counteract the goddamned peyote which was a not good idea you crazy Pedro bastard.'

Pedro falling into a wall, smiling the bliss out. The run and howl, the smile and slump, arm in arm in arm and do not even know, nor care, who the other set of arms is, the one groping so nice like.

Another place; the final place.

Like rats from a sinking ship they slip, along with many others forced from the dance floor at the night's end, or at least the bar's close, oozing along with a pretty young one each, with mascara and lipstick all smeared, clothes ruffled, the hunched shuffle-stoop and crabwalk, arms interlinked, leading the way to new adventure so late, or rather early, in the day. An after hours booze can of the dodgier type. A loud and rough and tumble joint. Punk rock. Cigarettes in an illegal smoking backroom. And shots of jagermeister. And buxom ladies in belly shirts, prostitutes and conmen and villainy all over the place, oozing out of the walls. Perfect.

'No one here gets out alive.' ~ shouted through the throng and laughter. Somewhat scary and deranged laughter from Pedro, which makes people give the man, the stumbling man, much space.

Poker game in a corner in this basement with windows painted black and velvet curtains. Cans of Mexican lager and cigarettes. Arkady winning and cheating at poker, winning too many hands in a row while Pedro entertains the lasses, but with no money to pay for things to sustain them they are soon slinking off to bed. Arkady being asked to leave the table, but with enough winnings for a few more drinks. Now tired and drinking anyways, smoking anyways, edgy, restless, and propped against the bar.

'I'm not saying he won't screw you over, but at least he'll do it to your face. I can respect that. Not like most of these assholes in this bar. Cunts all 'round.'

'Hey, Arkady, shut the fuck up, these cunted assholes can hear us.'

'You know dude. I love you. I am pretty fucked up already.'

'I am… in agreement, you... Cossack.'

Several individuals have gathered around the two. They look scary, but then everyone in an illegal after-hours boozecan at eight in the morning tends to look scary. Suddenly they are unceremoniously grabbed and dragged to the entrance where a little man in a fedora awaits. Strange yet familiar, he is, but unplaceable as it is all rather a blur. They are dragged out at his behest, and knocked into a few walls on the way. Arkady is kicked several times in the ribs before they are hauled out and into the bright, blinding, unforgiving and pain inducing light.

By: Daniel Smallegange