Once the photographer moves away, I introduce Natalie to Zara and Beattie. She shakes their hand politely.
“Do you girls come here often?” asks Natalie.
They both shrug, nonchalantly. “Maybe. If it’s pumping. Depends on the crowd.”
“We were about to leave, but then we saw that Jack was here,” says Beattie.
“Well, gracias for coming over,” I say, chinking my glass with Zara and Beattie. I feel immensely good right now.
“Do you come in here often?” Beattie asks me. “We’ve never seen you here.”
“Yeah, I heard you don’t even go out in public,” adds Zara.
“I do,” I say. “But I try to keep a low profile.”
“I suppose it must be tough,” says Zara, with a sympathetic expression. “I mean, I get recognised a lot, but it must be so much worse for you.”
“You get used to it,” I shrug.
At this moment a security guard steps in from behind the curtain to the VIP area and weaves his way around the room, whispering to the groups of people around us. As he murmurs his message, their facial expressions fill with concern. They stand and begin making their way toward the bar.
“What’s going on?” I ask Natalie, pointing at the guard.
“I bet it’s a raid,” she says, reaching for her handbag. She rummages for a second and then hands me something small. I feel its diminutive weight drop into the palm of my hand, but don’t look down. “Take this. It’s the last of my drugs,” whispers Natalie.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s an anti-inhibitant.”
“You don’t say,” I reply, slipping it into my mouth, swallowing with a sip of my cocktail.
Zara taps me on the shoulder. “Why is everyone... panicking?” she slurs.
“Drug officers,” I say.
“Oh,” says Zara. “Well, I don’t have any left.”
“Then you’ll be fine,” I smile.
Patrons arrive at the bar and hand the bartender small bags, which he places in what looks like a leather-bound book. But it’s not. It’s a safety deposit box that’s been made to look like a book. Once everyone has handed their drugs over, he approaches me.
“Is there anything you’d like me to look after, Jack?” he asks.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you though.”
He looks slightly concerned. “Are you absolutely sure?”
Natalie takes my arm, seeing that I’m deep in a drug haze. “Jack, are you sure you have nothing on you?”
“They’ve brought porcines with them,” adds the bartender. “They’ll definitely sniff you out if you’re carrying.”
“Pigs?” says Natalie, with disgust. “They can’t be fucking serious. They’re going to bring pigs into Durté?”
The bartender shakes his head, mirroring Natalie’s disdain, and walks away, sealing the security box. I stand up from my barstool.
“Where are you going?” asks Natalie.
“Just heading to the bathroom,” I mumble, and walk towards the back of the VIP area.
Natalie calls something out, but I can’t hear her. The room is spinning and I feel like I will collapse unless I get to the bathroom very soon. In some rudimentary way I know where I am, but my body and mind begin to draw apart. People are probably looking at me, but just like the DNA in the dank carpet and the smells soldered into each piece of furniture, they all disappear. Everything ends and I don’t even realise.
I think it’s the banging that wakes me up. There’s a voice somewhere in front of me. It occurs to my regained consciousness that my eyes haven’t been shut. I’m sitting on a closed toilet, slumped back against the wall. Wide eyes staring blankly, rolling back in my skull. The loud thumping begins again, shaking the cubicle door on its hinges. I glance up and see a small mirror hovering above the door, an eye reflected in it.
“Sir, open this door now,” yells the man.
I groan a response and sit up, preparing myself to stand. The officer bangs again.
“This seat’s taken,” I say in a low voice.
“Open this door now,” says the officer again, more agitated.
I get to my feet and straighten my jacket, sparing a remote thought for the five pills and gram of cane in its inner pocket.
I unlock the door and pull it open. In front of me is a young drug enforcer. His black, collared uniform is crisp and ironed. Boots all shiny. Paraphernalia hangs from his belt. A neat haircut. Clean shaven. A rather forgettable individual. As his eyes widen, I can tell he has recognised me. His assertive tone suddenly escapes him.
“Uh, could you please step... outside the cubicle,” says the young officer.
“Sure,” I smile, then extend my hand. “Pleasure.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t make contact until our porcines have inspected you.”
“No problem,” I reply, feeling more than a little groggy. I step out into the wide, dark bathroom. The lights in the ceiling have failed. The only illumination is the dull glow of long fluorescents that run across the top of the mirrors above the sinks. All the walls are covered in layers of ripped rock posters and calculated graffiti that are designed to look authentic. The white tiles below are stained like a chain smoker’s teeth. “So we’ll have contact after I’m inspected?” I ask.
The officer glances at me awkwardly. “Uh, that... depends on the results of the inspection.”
“Can’t you just inspect me yourself?” I ask, taking a step back and leaning against the rear wall of the bathroom. “Do you really need an animal to do your job for you?”
The officer doesn’t reply. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. Another ten seconds of silence pass between us and he quickly steps to the bathroom's door, looking for his colleagues. He hurriedly motions at someone and says, “Bring them in here. All three.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to inspect me yourself?” I ask again, my voice reverberating around the room. “You never know what you’ll find.” I reach into my jacket pocket, locate Natalie’s underwear and then hold them out for the officer to see. He nervously looks at me from the doorway, eyeing the small piece of fabric that I dangle in the air. He looks away. I shrug and then hold the panties to my nose for a second before putting them away.
The officer returns to the centre of the room. “Please remain very still, sir. And do not touch the porcines. They can be very aggressive.”
I smile, continuing to lean back against the wall. I’m feeling good again, as if the buzz has reached its plateau and I can just sit back and enjoy it.
I hear a series of deep grunts and snorts from outside. Then, as if some long, muscular blob of ink is pouring into my field of vision, the first of the giant porcines lumbers into the room. Its hooves hit the tiles and it stops for a second, almost recoiling, before it puts its snout to the tiles and snorts again. Regaining its confidence, it turns into the bathroom and inquisitively wanders in my direction. Another drug enforcer follows it in, holding a leash that’s attached to a neck collar around the porcines broad, sinewy throat.
Porcines essentially look like giant pigs. Their broad bully heads give them the appearance of mutant heifers, pointed with a snout-like appendage. When fully grown, the concave curve of their backs is usually above the height of a man’s waist. They’re potentially very dangerous and if you encountered one in the wild you would run. Their rows of teeth are like that of a shark, jagged and unforgiving. In nature, they grow two sharp, straight tusks that jut from their drippings maws towards the ground. These marrowed implements effectively bust open live prey or carrion like a surgically-tuned boning knife. Although these professionally bred sniffers, which are currently honing in on me, have their tusks removed and are trained not to bite, they are still intimidating. They wear electrified collars that are used by their handlers to keep them in line, plugging them with a voltage if they follow their natural instincts.
The porcines’ sense of smell is unparalleled. When trained to smell narcotics, they c
an detect them from anywhere. It doesn’t matter where you’re hiding them, whether its behind layers of clothing or in a bodily orifice, the snout seeks it out. The only thing that can fool them is airtight containers of a non-porous material. Something like the bartender’s mystery tin, which at this moment is providing asylum for the VIP room’s stash.
The first of the porcines clops toward me. Its handler’s facial expression confirms that he too has recognised me.
“Be very still,” says the first officer. “If the porcine senses something, it will raise its head and growl. It will not attack, but we will have to search you.”
“So I shouldn’t pat it?” I ask.
“Pat?” asks the man. “I, uh, don’t know what that is.”
“It’s when I reach out a hand and gently stroke it,” I reply.
The officer shakes his head. “No, no, definitely do not touch the animal.”
The giant black pig tweaks its ears slightly and shudders, the dense muscles of its shoulders vibrating for a moment. It then slowly raises its head and the two black orbs in its eye sockets lock with my dilated pupils. It remains silent. I’m wary of it, as these animals have been known to shred a man’s arm to the bone.
Then, led by their handlers, two more porcines idle into the bathroom. Now three pigs stand in front of me, forming a semi-circle, their intimidating presence a sight to behold. In my addled state, the grandeur of the situation is quite overwhelming. The two new porcines snort around my ankles, heaving air into their lungs. Then, almost simultaneously, they raise their bulbous heads and stare at me with empty, colourless eyes. A clear film of mucus moistens their kidney-shaped nostrils. All three stare. All three are silent. The ends of their snouts are dangerously close to my face. The four officers look puzzled, waiting for them to respond. To confirm my guilt.
“Remain still, sir,” says one of the handlers. “If they growl, we are legally obliged to search you.”
“They’re... not growling,” I say, smugly. “It seems they just want to be friends.”
The three impressive creatures stare at me silently, not uttering so much as a sniffle. Their expression, though difficult to decipher in its livestockian vagueness, could almost be likened to genuine puzzlement. As if some aspect of me is elusive. They stare blankly. Intrigued.
The four officers look at each other for direction, before one says, “I think we’ll have to assume this is a positive response,” he says.
The other three seem uncertain. They don’t know what to do. I’m clearly twisted beyond belief. Five minutes ago I was unconscious in a nightclub toilet cubicle. The only way I could be more obviously under the influence of drugs was if I was laughing maniacally and lobbing fistfuls of pills at them like confetti.
“They normally growl,” shrugs one officer. “We can’t search if they haven’t identified him properly.”
“I tell you what guys,” I say. “Why don’t we pass on this whole inspection thing. I’ll sort you with some backstage passes to one of our shows. Bring the pigs. We’ll have some fun.”
“Sir, please be quiet for a moment. If those pigs make just the slightest noise, we’re searching you,” says the first officer.
The four of them all step away, forming a small huddle and discussing their next move. While they’re distracted, I lightly pat the porcine to my right. As my hand strokes the rough, leathery hind on the back of its head, it gently faces downward, allowing my touch. No animosity or fear. Just some sort of mutual adoration or respect. Like a domesticated dog that just wants attention. Human contact. My hand moves down to its snout and it slithers a long, serpentine tongue from between its drooling lips, which falls across the back of my hand. I see glimpses of its jagged teeth, which remain tucked away and unbrandished.
At this point the other two porcines move in and try to nuzzle my hand also. All of them gentle and unthreatening, despite their unsettling appearance. In my warm chemical glow, I never feel fear. Just amazement at these giant, pig-like alien creatures that I’ve crossed paths with in my new life.
“Hey!” exclaims one of the officers. He wrenches a pistol from a holster on his belt and aims it at me. “Get your hands away from them!”
“Calm it down,” I smile back. “They’re licking me. That’s a big emotional commitment for anyone. You’ll embarrass them.”
All four officers gape at the animals, their eyes wide in disbelief.
“They’ve never done that before,” says one of the handlers. “They don’t normally...”
The officer lowers his gun, as his colleagues stare at me. Returning the pistol to his holster, he looks at me and says, “They don’t normally behave like that... toward people.”
“They clearly recognise a fellow swine,” I smile, suddenly feeling like a cigarette. “Gentleman, I need to find my companion. In the absence of a genuine ID, am I free to leave?”
The officers all look at each other, realising they’re in unchartered territory. They’ve found themself somewhere that isn’t on the map. After another quick group huddle, they let me go. This is extraordinary luck. If I had been apprehended and blood tested in my current state, the list of results would resemble the periodic table.
I’m in the side alley of Durté, kissing Natalie against the weathered brick wall. We’re in darkness, unnoticed by the people that scurry past on the sidewalk a few metres away.
“So, Natalie,” I say, between drawn-out, torrid tongue exchanges, “is it time we go to yours?”
Natalie shakes her head. “Not yet. I’m going to make you wait.”
“No,” I say, also shaking my head. “I can’t.” I put my hand up her skirt and push it against the smooth opening between her legs.
She gasps, grasping my wrist to push me away. “Ok, ok,” she says. “One more club. One more club and you can take me.”
“Where?” I ask, becoming agitated. My mental state means that patience is a virtual impossibility.
“A special place. It’s so good, I promise you won’t want to leave.”
I hold my hand between her legs, pushing her against the wall. Trapping her. “I already know where I want to go and I know I won’t want to leave.”
“Jack,” she says, quickly kissing me again. “One more club and I’m yours.”
I should be suspicious when Natalie leans forward and seductively writes the name of our destination on the back of the taxi driver’s hand, rather than simply telling him where we want to go. The lack of verbalisation should be a big hint. If you’re going to the supermarket, then you generally feel comfortable just saying to the driver, “I’m going to the supermarket. Thanks buddy.” It would be unusual to retrieve a pen from your handbag, give the driver a “come hither” smile and then make sure the cleft of your ample bosom is clearly visible as you lean forward into the front of the vehicle and scrawl something slowly across his hairy knuckles. But that’s what Natalie is doing and I don’t really quiz it. Natalie is unusual and a little scary. She just does things like that. It’s in her nature.
I’m not even paying proper attention when the driver reads his hand and then turns to Natalie with a shocked expression. She just vampishly reclines into the rear seat of the taxi. “C’mon Mr. Driver. We don’t have all night.” She then lifts her left calf and drapes it over my right leg, slightly parting her magnificent thighs. The driver glances hesitantly in the rearview mirror and then drops his foot on the accelerator.
Natalie and I kiss in the backseat. She takes my hand and moves it between her legs, my fingers assessing the area and sending visual descriptions to the rest of my body. It’s clear that the feedback is well received. I’m so preoccupied that I don’t notice that our vehicle has left the main arteries of city traffic and begun winding through the outskirts of the central business district. My peripheral vision senses the lack of neon lighting outside our car, which is now weaving through side alleys, following two wide cones of headlight.
“Are we...?” I try to ask, before Natalie pushes her to
ngue back into my mouth. Another turn and we’re at our destination.
I can see neon again. There’s a glowing sign, with groups of shadows loitering near the entrance that it marks. I can hear the distant sound of hard electronica. Like cannon fire rolling beyond nearby hills. But we’re in the industrial district and all around us, everywhere you look, is decrepit brick and decaying masonry. Concrete central.
The neon sign says Membrané. I’ve only been here once, but I didn’t stay long. The very mention of this place makes even porn stars raise their eyebrows and say, “That place is fucked up.”
Natalie hands a note to the driver and tells him to keep the change. He nods meekly, almost too nervous to turn and look at the venue he’s dropping us off at. Natalie takes my hand and swiftly pulls me from the cab. The doormen immediately recognise me and the entrance is pushed open.
The dank smell of sweat hits me like a tissue soaked in chloroform, giving me a heady, spinning sensation. All the lights are red. Bright red. Dark red. Blood red. There’s no other colour besides scarlet, crimson and various black shadows. This is where the depraved come. Though some would argue that they’re quite normal. In tune with their prehistoric disposition. Perhaps it’s the faux mask of civilisation that is too perverse to be allowed through these doors. Those fragile pillars of decorum are not welcome.
As we make our way through the seated area near the entrance, where people sit around low tables, I get a hazy sense that there are people engaging in sexual activity. Not blatantly. People are laughing and chinking glasses in a display you might see in any nightspot. But their hands are under the tables. Stroking. Squeezing. This is where the exhibitionists come to be a part of the throbbing exhibit. Many of the punters are too drug-fucked and preoccupied to notice my arrival, but a few catch my eye and stare, summing me up. Figuring out if that’s Jack they see or some apparition.
Natalie orders two drinks at the bar. The barmaid, a tattooed, busty girl with facial piercings, dark spiky hair and a black singlet, glances at me and smiles. When she puts the two drinks on the bar, which are served in test tubes that dangle in a rack, Natalie leans over the bar, asking her a question. The barmaid leans in to hear her and then points toward the back of the club to our right. Natalie lifts each of the tubes from their holder and hands me one.
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