Friday night, or Las Moiras revisited.

Today's header proves itself immensely apt for our sad little story, as it happens. Have you noticed how often coincidence yields more fitting context than artfulness manages ? It's almost as if adequacy is rather the product of inadvertence than agency.

Around nine or so we were riding along in my automobile, my slavegirl seated at the wheel. I stole no kisses as I sat in the back, but you could see her nipples through the gauzy black.ⁱ Cruisin' an' playin' teh radio, with no particular place to go. As we flew past Curridabat the idea occured : "let's check out that Moiras place ?".

I liked the girl trying to run it a lot, back in May, you see. It was impossible not to like her, honestly speaking, this bujor de fataⁱⁱ, a shade above twenty, daring to go into the unknown. Into the hard, difficult, entrepreneurial, artistic unknown. A cabaret-restaurant, no less, distilled dreams irked by the blinkenlichten box, but not limiting themselves to it! There's a lot, an utter helluva lot to be said for the barefoot orc girl that doesn't simply content herself with pictures of White Devil airpilots and airplanes, with faintly scented candy wrappers left behind the same, with straw and mudbrick reconstructions of model airplanes -- but actually attempts to build one! Properly, even if it flies just a little, but let it fly that little that it'll fly. Not very tall, yes, not literously breastedⁱⁱⁱ, no, but her eyes sparked and my eyes sparked with hers. And so we had a date, for a Saturday night back in May, and I was going to introduce her to the wonders of the house of mirrors, all of them, and I was going to back her eager efforts. Because I can do such things.

She stood me up. This is an unwise course, seeing how I've told more girls trying to change arrangements to instead get fucked altogether than you've likely ever met. It's a thing, with me^iv, it always was.^v

So we went. For ten dollars in "cover charge" and a further ten dollars for rum and coffee^vi, we had the pleasure of being notified by ~every single member of the staff~ that we hadn't been there in a long time, with the exception of the sole new addition, who inquired in a very half-hearted manner^vii whether we work there. Then Jennifer showed up, and I couldn't, literally couldn't believe my eyes.

She was pale. Sickly, unhealthy pale, that sad, sad pallor of "I spent the past six months in an insane asylum but I'm ok now". Wasted, drained, the poor girl that looked so mature and confident and round and succulent with the very juice of life as to make me think her late twenties when she was twenty-two had managed to trade herself for a tired out 40yo accountant by the time she hit twenty-three. Weep with me for the inadvertent loss of youth, for such loss as I here witnessed is worthy of all your tears.

And then she spoke, and she told us, and I faintly prefer I'd have never heard. In fact, let me confess : I fully and roundly would have preferred seeing the woman successful beyond what I'd have thought reasonable. I'd have by very far preferred being awed, as humiliating as you may perceive such a turn of events, by her independence outmatching my control.

But... no such thing. She told us that they're only open three nights a week now, with all the excitement her well overdrawn vinnegar and long absent piss could muster to still support her. Her, their forever master, their beloved, incompetent mistress. She couldn't afford the "gastos" ie salaries, she whispered. Of course not, the woman that doesn't know how to say no and when to say yes can't possibly control a bunch of self-important, "artistic" employees, so how the hell are their salaries ever going to match with revenue ?

She told us about the great prospects opening up any day now. About how some whore with less wit but more sense than her, kept by some banker, is going to actualize artistic delusions at her expense. "The bank hires a producer and I give them the whole show", you see. This makes sense, somewhere, if you haven't slept, if you haven't turned a profit, if you haven't anything to look forward to. There's a large supermarket that's going to do something or the other, you realise. They had a clown act going as we spoke, and I could almost see the Ronald McDonald costumes coming soon for this once rosy Prikoke.

So we paid and we left. I couldn't fairly say I was sad, because what the fuck do I care, there's more women wasted that actually never had a chance than all the inept underwritters of hallucinated freedom^viii who "never had a chance" except they did and fucked it up.

We sat outside for a moment and smoked a cigarette. A few feet away, this evident slut, maybe nineteen or so, in knee high felt boots, fucking around with her phone. Coming down the road, this almost tall blondy in an actual, honest to god pantsuit^ix with a coupla girls and a beta dork in tow.^x She asks me que tal this bar, I tell her it's actually a cabaret thingee. She asks if there's a cover charge. I confirm. She is fishing for some kind of show of submission, I suspect, at the very least for some kind of "really positive relationship" from my slavegirl. She moves on, disabused, but not really ready to give up on the point. How could this be ? How could I be utterly fucking disinterested in her pantsuit ?!?! She turns around after passing, says "Oh, porno!!!" and wishes us a good time. Can you imagine the confusion of ideas, poor girl ran into a guy dressed as a guy rather than as a bum, smoking with his slavegirl dressed as a slavegirl rather than as a whatever the fuck they imagine themselves to be, and automatically assumed the den of iniquity aside must be the source of us, and probably a lot fucking scarier to boot. If only.

Mostly to bother her I ask the solitary phone-fucking slut whose name turned out to be Sophia whether she spoke English, which she confessed to understanding, but not speaking. Why not ? Oh, she's unsure. Ok, so say something. Oh, she can't. Why not ? Too much pressure! Fancy that wonder. So I told her we're going to this Jazz Cafe thing, a few blocks away, check out their band. Would she like to come ? She has to ask her friend. Where is her friend ? Inside. Why isn't she inside with her friend ? Too expensive cover charge. Alright, so ask your friend and come along then.

Friend showed up a few minutes later, the trip's readly agreed and I tell them to follow my girl. They do, disconcertedly, then stop once she reaches the passenger door of an ugly SUV one up from Mr. Bartholomew^xi. They really didn't expect the slut's driving, that's for sure. But anyway, I packed them all in teh right car and off we went -- a dozen blocks or so away. Once there, we wait for driver girl to extract self, dole out some change to the parking assistant, and follow her I say again. They do, except they stop towards the door, like foals running into a snake. "Oh, there's a cover charge" they explain, with the weary composure of a young'un well inhabituated to that being the absolute limit of their activity. Kinda like "it's in foreign currency" worked for a whole generation of Romanian kids, the paragon of inaccessibility.

But I pay the horrifyingly immense sum of twenty forty dollars to take three girls to a club Friday night, and in we go. Waiter shows up, I ask for four rums^xii (slavegirl doesn't drink when driving, but I drink doubles) and two coffees. The waiter inquires whether there'll be anything else, which is a fucking weird thing to ask some people who just sat down in a club, don't you find ? Anyway, nothing for now and he's dismissed. The drinks arrive, the waiter wants to know if we want a uischera, which is how they call a bucket of ice here. They do, so he gets it, and I ask him if they have medias.

Now, obviously, medias means socks in this language. That aside, it is also relatively obvious that bar patrons do not usually demand the servers produce socks. Media happens to also be how you say half, which is a reasonably popular way to drink in this country : buy a half liter bottle of whatever spirit, they deliver you a cute bottle. The waiter doesn't understand what the fuck is going on. Sophia's friend, who is a dance student, does understand. A quart, she produces, you got 'em ? The waiter excuses himself to go find out. Imagine this, a 30% full which is to say 70% empty bar in the middle of the student quarter (this Jazz Club is in San Pedro) on a cover-and-band Friday night, unsure whether they've bottle service or what the fuck. Do you think it's at all possible poor management and a misunderstood conception of freedom may have anything to do with the practical failure of everyone's plans everywhere ?

But anyway, the waiter confirms he checked. They have it. So how much, I ask ? He... get this... he was not prepared for this question. He checked whether they have it, not how much it costs if they do, what the fuck is this, stack smashing question overloading! One at a time, please, he's barely 20, too much pressure!

Anyway, I get one^xiii, I fill their whisky glasses and we chit-chat a little. Then the girls excuse themselves and... run away. I'm not even kidding, it was... I suppose it was altogether way too much. We were probably part of a stupid-orc-girl-organs theft ring, somebody somewhere really wants a pair of kidneys or a liver or whatever that were so fucking dysfunctional in the first place as to have been part of these nuts. We were probably trying to lure them to their utter doom and ultimate perdition, what with these strange magics of paying cover charges and buying alcohol in bars.

I don't know if I've recounted the story before, but a week or two ago I was reading the local papers and I ran into the most amusing junklet. Supposedly a woman had raised the local "Colegio Britanico" (pretentious but useless local preppie highschool) into a facebook frenzy by means of insistently spamming their forum with worried verbiage produced by the following string of events (in her own retelling) : someone had called the house, asking after her daughter. She inquired, like any normal but batshit insane mother would, all sorts of things, and it came to light that what was sought were the girl's measurements, by some person who was supposedly another girl's father, and for some purpose vaguely to do with nothing altogether very clear. Any sane reader will at this point have figured out that the caller was the girl's boyfriend, who was trying to make the girl a gift^xiv, but not so the woman in question, anyone in the school administration (notwithstanding they ostensibly have experience with kids -- at least hopefully more than me for fucks sake), nor anyone among the parents, nor anyone working in the edit room of the god damned newspaper in question. Instead, they went into lengthy periphrastic examinations of how the caller called her vieja loca (quite properly at that), and of how her daughter has no social media accounts or cellphones or anything in the way of communication (this, far from child abuse, is viewed as sound parenting for 14 to 18 yos in batshit insane Latinoland) and how the police told her this is a common tactic of pedophiles! SO SHE IS RAISING AWARENESS!!!! EVERYONE SHOULD BE CAREFUL!!11!1eleven

Imagine that fucking wonder, pedophiles interested in highschoolers! Next thing you know there's going to be 50 yo NBA MVPs and six year olds delivered live. So... yeah, they're a little touched in the head down here, like the ugly male fucktards who asked us to "keep an eye on their drink" in some bar a coupla months ago, as if fucking anyone could have been bothered to kidnap them. Why the fuck would anyone ? To do what the fuck, steal their used jeans ? Absolutely zero thoughts given whatsoever, just well raised awarenesses of nothing whatsoever all around. So yeah, I expect they thought we're gonna eat them. Cuz that's what I do with my time, totally, I spitroast and then eat Sophias.

The field finally cleared, we can concentrate on the band. Good god what a terror that was. They covered everything, whatever you could summon up from the 80s and 90s pop tops, from "Rapeee meee my friend" to System of a Down. They had learned it all phonetically, so there was a lot of "lalala", and they did it all in the same key, same timbre, same everything. Hand cranked muzak, nothing less, would you like to hear how Cobain sounds in the same tone as Blondie and Lorde ? They're all girls, right ? Or at least they all have long hair. Well, except for Blondie. Problem ?!

And so we walked out, leaving the fat, metalcore solist and the incredibly fucking bad drummer to commune undisturbed with the strange loner who, trance-transported, was spazzing out his right hand playing an imaginary guitar on his chair, and the rest of the three dozen or so patrons, including no less than four women, in two pairs, old enough to perhaps understand what they did wrong back when they were nineteen and their actual name was Sophia for lack of enough internal life to even come up with a Friday-night-slut alias like any sanely functioning girl ever since the dawn of time and of the notion of being 16. Old enough to perhaps understand it, but certainly not old enough to be able to do something about it.

Because there's nothing to be done about it, what.

1. I'm not even kidding, the very ass-flattering (if you've got an ass to flatter, as she does) dress is plain gauze in front, if she's walking towards you there's no missing out on how great her tits look. [↩]
2. Bujor is how you say peony in Romanian, although it's a very specifically fragrant guy the Romanians have in mind when they say it.

   But, through natural linguistic evolution, which is to say through generation upon generation upon generation upon generation of troubadours, trouveurs and minstrels encountering the resistence of the linguistic medium in their frothful, driven attempts to describe a certain kind of sangvine female perfection the term has become codified. It is, at least in classical Romanian, in the Romanian of Romanian folklore, the superlative attribute of female maidenhood. There's no better way to be, in song and dance, in the meadow or under the stars. Very much opposite, and not accidentally opposite, to the Victorian phtysic ideal of the very same period.

   The term is used in context here without any stretch whatsoever : bujor Limones, perhaps, as the case may be, but bujor never-the-fucking-less. [↩]

3. Before you fall over : I'm discussing pisi there, what you'd call a bimbo imagining self-importantly that calling her something resolves your obligation to compete with her.

   I'm discussing the woman that takes her womanhood seriously, if superficially, and attempts to work for it and at it, seriously. It's a lot of sweat, and a lot of blood, and it carries a lot of respect -- from the people who actually matter, you understand. What if you didn't have to excuse your, let's underline that, your woman in the same mousy, humbly defeated manner you have to defend your Toyota Buckrustet, and your career choices and your degrees and your kitchen furniture and your kitchen contents and your socks and and pretty much everything else about you ? Hm ? What if ?

   What if someone actually put the work in to do something fucking right for once, what then ? Call her a bimbo and pretend you're not interested because maybe that way we won't notice why exactly all the pretense ? Bear in mind that you're a lot more transparent (to the people that matter) than you give yourself credit for. [↩]

4. My relationships begin with me telling a girl what to do, and continue for exactly as long as she keeps doing it. With extreme care and astute planning one might arrange getting a break, girls with long histories of competent submission may get punished instead of being shown the door, but disobeying a direct order is as fucking dangerous as it gets. [↩]
5. Twenty years ago Chet watched me tell a girl off for daring to require a change of plans, boggled at the notion and tried to help her beloved 20year old with the wisdom a very warm woman had collected over a lifetime during which she had raised a coupla kids of the same age. "You can't be this harsh to a girl", she said. "Watch me." I barked, and I could plainly see sheer terror curl up all around her. Everyone reaches at some point or other this moment of clarity, when they finally realise I'm not fucking kidding, and I suppose that was hers. A very perceptive woman, what can I say, others need to be licking their own vomit off the floor, arms fastened behind their backs and tears streaming everywhere for the same result. [↩]
6. Last time, they had no coffee, but secretly sent a runner off to buy some at a different shop down the street.

   This time, they had figured some kind of system out. It is a relatively common occurence here that coffee will be served apart, which is to say the grains in a porcelain container atop your cup, and hot water, so you can make your own coffee. This works ok, for as long as you use porcelain. The problem is their system used paper instead of porcelain, sitting inside the cup instead of above it (obviously, paper moistened by hot water ain't ever standing up any weight) with the saddening result of infusing paper into the drink. I've never had coffee taste that horrifyingly bad in my life, literal paper bleach infusion. [↩]

7. Do you know how the gutless kids of today do the things they're affraid of doing ? So do I. [↩]
8. It is the factual point of the matter -- your choice is not whether to by my slave or else "be free". There is no such thing as "free" in this sense, not for you. Your choice is whether to joyfully submit to a man for the mere asking, or else quietly be trampled by a bureaucracy in due time. That's all there fucking is, and no more. Ask around.

   The trap is that at the time the master asks, you don't yet see the bars for what they are, you don't yet understand the wails of the lost for what they are, you don't yet grasp the functioning of the machine. And by the time you do so grasp it... [↩]

9. They wear the shit here, the "emancipated" bank clerks with reddit accounts. [↩]
10. They do this here, they're so dedicated to never ever ever being anywhere alone they'll actually go out, three girls to the dork. It's better that way!!! [↩]
11. Full name is actually Bartholomew Marzipan, if you must know. [↩]
12. Originally, the girls wanted beers. I ask if they know the local rum, they do, in the manner they speak English, as a thing far away removed. Why the fuck would you drink anything but rum in this country is beyond me, and why the fuck would you drink the UB piss anywhere, for that matter ? [↩]
13. Mostly for the car, to be honest. Yes, I go around with an open container in my back seat, problem ? [↩]
14. Ineptly, as he's trying to gift clothing, which is a field wherein he can't compete with the girl's mother. He should gift her jewelry instead, it's both cheaper and a much better competition field, as her mother sure as fuck isn't buying her daughter any snatchlaces or whatever. [↩]