Bulletproof

'It’s a simple question, doctor: Would you eat the moon if it were made of (b.b.q.)ribs?'
Will Ferrell, from his SNL Best Of...dvd that I was watching moments before I fell asleep

Apparently, if you fashion a perfect ring of explosives and sit in the exact centre of this perfect circle you would be encased in a vacuum and therefore be absolutely safe. Everything had to be, I repeat, perfect. One screw up, one defective stick of dynamite would result in limbs travelling in different directions. Blood confetti. It's a trick that the Bolsheviks used on Russian noblemen who were scheduled by the State for an early meeting with God but they actually wanted to spare. I have read about this some time ago in a David Foster Wallace book 'Girl With Curious Hair' and my futile effort in searching through Google for some kind of confirmation have resulted in the inventor of dynamite, Perfect Circle the band, a novel by Sean Stewart, Euclidean geometry and that crappy Idaho-approved flick Napoleon Dynamite that makes me want to Rex-Kwan-Do anyone who mentions the film.

My drinking nights with Free Beer are kind of like that. There seems to be a whole lot of simultaneous chaos that leaves us unscarred, safe in the bosom of that perfect circle. We're kind of like Mr.Burns who has every single disease known to Man but thanks to the delicate balance of the "Three Stooges Syndrome" remain, if not healthy, alive. I don't know how we survive. Seat us next to a suicide bomber on a bus and we'll happily argue religion.

The night begins with us squeezing lime juice into each others eyes. It's about ten at night. We've both been drinking elsewhere and have decided to meet up at the Amethyst Bar because it's the only place we can remember when we're drunk. Three shots of Jagermeister later and I'm engaged to Piglet. Piglet- Irish, 22 years old, unlucky in love, neurotic, shop-a-holic Imelda Marcos, owner of rats, slept with/ sleeping with my friend Chris when they're speaking to each other- is currently desperate for residency and is facing deportation. Getting engaged is a necessity for survival. For her I'm a driftwood in the raging storm that is called Going Back To Potatoville. For me, she's a token person to ward off annoying questions from relatives and also a chance to have sitcom situations like in Spaced or first season Ned & Stacy. And I'm drunk so every girl looks good to me.

Free Beer and I change venues. We stumble into the Lustre Lounge. Ten minutes later I'm slapping an ex-con in the face. How it happened was this:

We're sitting next to this guy at the bar and we make conversation. How's your week been? we ask. 'Good,' grumbles the man, 'I got out of prison on Tuesday.' It is then that we notice the tear-shaped prison tattoo under his eye- a sign that he has killed someone while inside the joint. Did he use a fellow prisoner's innards to stuff his pillow? Did he shiv his cellmate for snoring? we ask in succession. He smiles and doesn't answer. For all we know he could have been warding off murderous thoughts all night- dark, scuttling things in the recesses of his brain- but he seemed alright. He spoke about his kids mainly and how happy he is to get to see them again.

It's tequila time.

It's chatreuse time.

It's more beers down our throats time.

He's having a genuine laugh with us now. 'You boys are alright!' he says, 'I wouldn't even hurt ya if you punched me in the face!'
'Why would we do that?' I belch.
'Just saying is all. C'mon- hit me.'
'Sure.' I slap him in the face.

In his mind my innards keep his pillow fluffy. My lifeless body emits no snore. And then he's back at the Lustre Lounge with idiots too stupid to kill. I slap him again. 'My shout this round.' I say, and we drink for a while longer.

Jai guru deva, om
Fatman