It’s the ass end of a totally gayriffic weekend and I have learned a few facts and lessons.
1) Never fuck with a man’s sequins.
2) Guys give the best BJs.
3) I look really fierce in pink.
4) Drag queen make-up and ridiculous amounts of rain make for a bad mix.
The line outside Barbara has been going strong since last Wednesday, but at six AM Sunday morning the queers start trickling out the door. I ferry home a guy so limp wristed he can’t shake hands properly and a couple of short haired gals with that grip like an iron vise.
A chick trio from Akureyri beg me to join the party I drive them to. “Later,” I lie. Sure I’d love to go, but ‘em bitches are louder’n a sonic boom and I fear for my well being.
A pair of drunkoholics stumble out of ever-so-upscale speakeasy Mónakó. One of ‘em, the one with the less leathery face, tries to get in the front seat with a full glass of Cuba Libre (or perhaps just Coke, though I doubt that very much). “Hold your horses there mister,” I advise. “What?” the man inquires. “You’re not getting in here with that.” “Oh, sorry. I’ll go inside and pour it into a plastic mug.” How very astute of him I think to myself, of course it’s not the notion of a plastered lowlife spilling alcohol in my cab that worries me, but I shudder at the thought that this respectable establishment should be robbed of a glass.
Once inside the wino reparté begins. “You’re an alcoholic,” stumbling Cuba Libre guy opines to his mate the raging drunkard. “No I’m not. I’m merely wine inclined,” is his straight faced response. “Alcoholics drink ‘cuz they have to. I drink because I want to.” I’m glad we got that cleared up. I thought he drank for the sagging facial effect or to fuel his witty banter.
Then the party chicks call again. My ears start ringing.
A jolly racist KR fan fresh off the plane from an awesome defeat in Basel keeps urging me to mow down stray black people in the street. Even when there ain’t any in sight (which is pretty much always) he goes off on some hate-rant. Odd that, seeing as how KR fly a black and white flag. For penance I charge him double. He don’t even notice.
Out of the torrential downpour flooding the Laugavegur high street emerges the forlorn figure of a long lost love. Her head stooped trudging a drenched march of desolation, the vision of gloom ravaging her tender face tugs heavily at my heartstrings. Behind her a few paces stalks a stubble cheeked Latino that I convince myself is up to no good, due to the blinking neon sign on his forehead advertising “Rapist” to all and sundry.
I’m tempted to get out and give him a wholesome thrashing just on pure principle, were it not that my ex would take nothing from me even if it saved her a trip down a dark alley and a rape kit administration at the E.R. Still, the rain is far too heavy for even the most enthusiastic practitioner of non-consensual sex to arouse his raping spirit. And probably it’s just the lingering remains of the urge to shield painting the devil’s silhouette on a blank wall. Wish I’d been so thoughtful and considerate back when it counted for something.
And the party chicks call again so I drive them downtown while they polish of a box of wine chugging it straight from the tap. Classy is the word.
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