waterfall. Laser beams played inwards from all directions,
illuminating everything around in frequent flares and making the
head throb. How could anyone stay here of their own free will for
more than ten minutes?
Were it not for
the drink, a bottle of which Zach was holding in his hands, he
could hardly have put up with this punishment. It’s true what they
say, the music of the younger generation is designed to irritate
the older. Up until that moment he had not considered himself old,
but looking at the ecstasy on the faces of those around him, he
suddenly realized that he belonged to a different generation. In
his day, having fun really meant enjoying yourself, not like
this.
After taking a
swig of his drink, he set the bottle of dark brushed metal on the
table, where several identical but empty bottles were already
standing. This new-fangled gnat’s piss had the same effect on the
head as alcohol mixed with amphetamines. It was the very thing for
a joint like this, but the taste was pure poison, sickly-sweet but
impossibly acidic at the same time.
After the
second bottle, the multi-colored laser beams took on an unusual
appearance. People’s movements seemed to slow down and the music
didn’t sound so loud. Now he could understand how those jerks at
the next table were able to keep chatting to each other in spite of
all the racket. He looked towards them again. Their table was
groaning under the weight of similar empty bottles and their eyes
appeared glazed over, even from this distance. Well, that was
probably enough of this muck for today. It was supposed to be
comparatively weak according to the label, but not being used to
it, he hadn’t known what to expect. A bottle of cold vodka would go
to his head more than this poison, but at least he would recognize
the feeling. This stuff just made him feel odd. His body was still
under his control, but it felt different. Still, he had to make a
pretense of thinking everything here was OK by him.
Zach reached
blindly for the bottle again, but instead of the cold dew-covered
metal, his palm touched someone’s sweaty hand. All his muscles
tensed immediately and his other hand crept into his pocket for his
gun. His face remained the same, but his internal muscles
compressed into a ball, ready to jump into action if the
circumstances required.
Zach drunkenly
turned his head. Sitting next to him and staring straight at him
was some jerk with long dreadlocks, a multitude of piercings and
fluorescent tattoos. How could he have reached the table without
Zach having noticed him? His stare was too intelligent and
unnaturally penetrating for the sort of degenerate he seemed to be.
It was out of kilter with his appearance. Usually these doped-up
junkies hardly knew what planet they were on, but this one clearly
knew what he was about.
“What do you
want?” asked Zach, looking at him. His eyes were partly closed, as
if he were drunk. He winked, deliberately moving his eyelids
slowly, creating the impression that he was barely able to move his
tongue.
“Shall we
dance?” asked the junkie.
Zach looked
around. What sort of game was this?
“I think you
have the wrong table, chum,” he replied, carefully releasing the
safety catch on his gun and aiming it at the junkie’s crotch
without taking it out of his pocket.
The guy’s face
expressed neither protest nor annoyance. He was not in the least
surprised and did not try to persuade Zach, but simply put his
bottle in front of Zach’s nose and sighed in disappointment as he
clumsily came out from behind the table. Zach pushed the bottle
aside in disgust with his fingernail, but then realized that there
was something rolling around inside it. His body felt a shock.
Could this jerk really be the one?
Zach waited a
few minutes, periodically bringing his bottle to his mouth, but
only pretending to drink it. Then he got up and cautiously
exchanged the bottle in his hand for the one left by the junkie and
shakily, clumsily,
illuminating everything around in frequent flares and making the
head throb. How could anyone stay here of their own free will for
more than ten minutes?
Were it not for
the drink, a bottle of which Zach was holding in his hands, he
could hardly have put up with this punishment. It’s true what they
say, the music of the younger generation is designed to irritate
the older. Up until that moment he had not considered himself old,
but looking at the ecstasy on the faces of those around him, he
suddenly realized that he belonged to a different generation. In
his day, having fun really meant enjoying yourself, not like
this.
After taking a
swig of his drink, he set the bottle of dark brushed metal on the
table, where several identical but empty bottles were already
standing. This new-fangled gnat’s piss had the same effect on the
head as alcohol mixed with amphetamines. It was the very thing for
a joint like this, but the taste was pure poison, sickly-sweet but
impossibly acidic at the same time.
After the
second bottle, the multi-colored laser beams took on an unusual
appearance. People’s movements seemed to slow down and the music
didn’t sound so loud. Now he could understand how those jerks at
the next table were able to keep chatting to each other in spite of
all the racket. He looked towards them again. Their table was
groaning under the weight of similar empty bottles and their eyes
appeared glazed over, even from this distance. Well, that was
probably enough of this muck for today. It was supposed to be
comparatively weak according to the label, but not being used to
it, he hadn’t known what to expect. A bottle of cold vodka would go
to his head more than this poison, but at least he would recognize
the feeling. This stuff just made him feel odd. His body was still
under his control, but it felt different. Still, he had to make a
pretense of thinking everything here was OK by him.
Zach reached
blindly for the bottle again, but instead of the cold dew-covered
metal, his palm touched someone’s sweaty hand. All his muscles
tensed immediately and his other hand crept into his pocket for his
gun. His face remained the same, but his internal muscles
compressed into a ball, ready to jump into action if the
circumstances required.
Zach drunkenly
turned his head. Sitting next to him and staring straight at him
was some jerk with long dreadlocks, a multitude of piercings and
fluorescent tattoos. How could he have reached the table without
Zach having noticed him? His stare was too intelligent and
unnaturally penetrating for the sort of degenerate he seemed to be.
It was out of kilter with his appearance. Usually these doped-up
junkies hardly knew what planet they were on, but this one clearly
knew what he was about.
“What do you
want?” asked Zach, looking at him. His eyes were partly closed, as
if he were drunk. He winked, deliberately moving his eyelids
slowly, creating the impression that he was barely able to move his
tongue.
“Shall we
dance?” asked the junkie.
Zach looked
around. What sort of game was this?
“I think you
have the wrong table, chum,” he replied, carefully releasing the
safety catch on his gun and aiming it at the junkie’s crotch
without taking it out of his pocket.
The guy’s face
expressed neither protest nor annoyance. He was not in the least
surprised and did not try to persuade Zach, but simply put his
bottle in front of Zach’s nose and sighed in disappointment as he
clumsily came out from behind the table. Zach pushed the bottle
aside in disgust with his fingernail, but then realized that there
was something rolling around inside it. His body felt a shock.
Could this jerk really be the one?
Zach waited a
few minutes, periodically bringing his bottle to his mouth, but
only pretending to drink it. Then he got up and cautiously
exchanged the bottle in his hand for the one left by the junkie and
shakily, clumsily,
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