Fuse BD

I have just been thrown out of this club because I tried to hit Tintin in the face. He is such a smartarse. Always looking sly with his freshly washed face. He would surely be drinking a Diet Red Bull with Asterix, the other smartarse, if they both had been here tonight.

I was having a good time before the bouncers grabbed me. The Gin Tonic was done with devotion and the conversation floated like a steel blue breeze. I can still recall all those words I said that made so much sense.

“I want this to go on forever”, the beautiful creature dancing in front of me says. And my answer sounds as if it has always been there: “The night does not need to end. Her eternal blue leads us. And it is up to ourselves, whether we favour the sweet smell of grapes over the cold light of abandonment. The ticking of the clock to the poppy sound of oblivion.” I smiled without effort while I uttered those words. Even without touching anybody or anything, the tears that were streaming down my cheeks seemed to tell that I was right now embracing the entire world with my loving arms.

But then I saw that the bouncers let cartoon characters into the club too. They call it Fuse BD. BD for Bad Drinks maybe, because this is when my GT actually started tasting stale. Already Lucky Luke was taking too much of the ladies attention away when he started vaping on the dancefloor. Then the smurfs did this ridiculous dance that threatened to sober me up and even cut clean through my protective poppers curtain. Even the white smurf from Gare Central who I thought left the country some time ago was there tottering.

It was when the moron Tintin walked onstage my glooming mood and started chatting up my charming accompanist, that I thought I had to do something: Something like slapping him without warning.

Well, now I am impounded by the disapproving looks of passers-by. Early birds caged in their sad urban lives. Numbing their pain with slavery and family life. I would not do that. I am free to do whatever I want to do. Just right now I do not fancy to be by myself. Really, it feels very awkward. And the light this morning is of a different blue, more hostile, unappreciative to my very self. The words I uttered before, the words that made so much sense, they don’t seem to make sense anymore.

I think will go to this morning market. Maybe there I will find some ease from those annoying voices.


About writingbrussels

Seven Writers. Three Languages. One City.
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