the USA.¨ I craved sleep. Drunken Patriot investigated Lima nightlife complete with American flag bandana adorning his head while I lay in bed like a drunken clam.The following encompasses his life from 3am-6am:
My friend strolled the streets in search of a bar, coveting beer. In Lima, Peru, at three in the morning, locating an open bar paralleled the probability of my grandma matching me shot for shot. In my twenty-three years, I´ve never seen the woman consume a drop of alcohol.
A tattoo-swathed Peruvian man approached my friend, saying, ¨Hey, what´s up Bro, you want some Cocaine?¨ After Drunken Patriot´s determined denial, Dealer, aka Ricardo, trailed him, engaging Drunken Patriot in conversation. He established that Ricardo had lived in California, had a Rage Against the Machine tattoo across his left chest, and was a cracked-out Coke dealer. Official occupation: Coke dealer. Supplementary employment: tattoo artist. My friend debated whether Dealer desired his company for his kidnapping and ransome potential, his inevitably costly possessions, and, thus, stealing prospects, or for his impending friendship, California-kinship. After vehemently informing Ricardo he would kick his ass if he attempted to steal anything, kidnap him, or (figuratively, of course), ass-rape him, Ricardo´s response was, ¨Man, I´m not a faggot, man.¨ As all bars, clubs, or any legitimate alcohol establishments closed at 3am, Drunken Patriot elected his beer craving took precedence over his common sense, and departed Miraflores, our Lima district location, for an unknown destination which Ricardo reported encompassed, ¨fucking beer and some fucking sweet-ass pussy.¨ Drunken Patriot´s thought process: I want beer. I want beer. Ri-fucking-cardo´s going to kidnap me. I want beer.
Thus, Drunken Patriot joined Dealer and friend in car driven by Dealer´s friend. The car sped like a Crack-cheetah, streaking through snaking streets in excess of 120mph (in his inebriatd state, my friend, an electrical engineering major, was still lucid enough to mentally convert kilometers per hour to miles per hour). Within fifteen minutes, a cop pulled the car over. Dealer informed Drunken Patriot he should remove his American flag bandana, and shoved a hat on his head as the cop approached. Ticket: not for speeding. Seatbelt law. $50US later - like paper gold in Peru - the Peruvian cop released the car ticket-less. Driving through sinister and suspect streets, Drunken Patriot contemplated opening the door and flinging himself out, Rambo-style. Such material comprises my bravery-dreams. He seriously considered it. The dark doorways, people-deficient sidewalks, and the car´s 130mph coerced hesitation. Upon driving through Alcoholic´s Agony - lifeless streets - a street flooding with vivid lights and bouncers materialized with intoxicated relief across Drunken Patriot´s face. The car parked, and he entered, flanked by Coke Dealer and friend. Inside, Heroin-high Asian mafia men crumpled, collapsed in chairs. Women ubiquitously situated throughout the room, and intermittent strip shows ensued. Dealer persistently attempted to steal Drunken Patriot´s camera from him, attain money from him for a prostitute, and entice him to the bathroom for some lines. My friend resolved to buy Dealer drinks so his thieving instincts would subside with alcohol consumption.
At 6:30am my Drunken Patriot returned to the Hostal, staggering and swerving, screeching about Coked-out Ri-fuck-ing-cardo, his first night across American borders, his beer-hunt, cops, Heroined-Asians, and whorehouses. My drunken clam coma response: ¨What?¨
Pisco Sours
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