Svedka

Svedka

The first week of spring brought a new opportunity for me stake/claim. Body guarding for a VIP 'high-club'. Ferris told me high-clubs are another names for nightclubs. Where elites and regulars gather to party their stress and pain away. But powerful gang bosses rule them under their own section. They dance, gamble, hit on women with tasteless or silver wit, or watch them 'make rain' on poles (I thought they were doing an aerobics contest). 

Skimming though  the distant memory/shadow of my former country, I never seen such provocative and shameful display of courtship before. Naked women, some more shapely than others, moving their shiny, bare fertile parts with such mesmerizing, artistic lewdness. Their rhythm was graceful  and spirited and uniform like curving inlets of calm water. The eye-candy show was very dazzling...and physically stimulating in some ways.

 The plan seemed easy enough. I was to apply for a bouncer position- club guard for a turf/street boss. Preferably, a high-respected gang group, one that pays well, and can guarantee some black-market immunity from the BCI spies that walk among the Pedestal Grounds. Ferris and I went to the interview.

My assessment was stupidly easy. The best part was mock fighting senior Bouncers. I was hired on the spot. My uniform a black-dress suit with an orange-striped/highlighted collar and spiral ear-piece. 

The place is a muted little thing, a low-rise, cream-colored rectangle between a clothing and shoe store. Despite the quaint outside, the inside was quite large, its atmosphere heavy with instrumental echoes, screams and neon light beams with cologne and sparkle dust. Black carpet trashed with silver and gold confetti patterns lay wild across the floor; rows upon rows of glass bottles, tall and small, glistening with mysterious liquidity flavors, aisles of high-rise bar counters, snack vendors, and mini-fridges propped on separate counters on either ends of the bartender's station.

For the first year as a VIP Bouncer, I refused sipping on anything that smelt like rotten fruit. All these drinks looked like bubbly-sparkly water to me; a foreign concoction of hard-hitting herbs carbonated into runny, rainbow-filtered waters. Mr. Hendi, my client's guest, was insistent that I try in his 82' Whirly; A bubbly, blonde-speckled water that smelt like fermented rice and teriyaki sauce. I declined every-time, doing my job dutifully.

 My clients and their friends were impressed for being so abstained- even during breaks or off hours- from rejecting a routine social practice. And maybe they're right to think so; the distant memory/shadow of my homeland doesn't have 'special' drinks like this society. I mean, sake and Nan'cha-tuk exist in our culture, but anything else called "fancy" was just exotic ice or hot teas: with honey, vanilla, ice, or syrup in them. 

One day I did try a drink. But it wasn't out of curiosity. I asked Guan if there was something on the hydrating side. My energy had been low from yesterday's night's patrol. Plus, I left my water jug at our hideout. He said I look like a Svedka type. Apparently, I look like I have some Russian in me--oddly specific hunch. 

The glass cup clinked the shiny dark brown counter as he gracefully poured the indigo liquid in the cup. The color was a pastel violet with icy berry-bits bobbing through it. 

I eyed it under the bar lights. Swirled the purple pool around and sniffed it a few times before letting the foreign water breach/lap my lips. I swished it in my mouth- the flavors marinating my tastebud- then swallowed.

 It went down smoothly like honey but had a frosty, sour/overripe berry taste between its pungent warm flame. 

My breath absorbed the acidity as I inhaled crisp, winter-type air through my nose and lungs.

 I remember feeling my lips curl upward.

 My first lust kiss. My addiction.