It happened sometime in August, 2007. I remember that much, because the London sun was hot like the flames of its own political controversies. The US and the UK were both on the brink of economic collapse, and embroiled in two different wars. The energy of these times was felt from one side of the Atlantic Ocean to the other, and this story is no exception.
Slam! The door collided into the wall of the dark, charming pub. It was violently swung open by a slender man who then slinked his way in. He donned a loose motorcycle vest that appeared as if it had been feasted on by rats. With a shaved head, he sported numerous faded tattoos, one dangly silver earring, a chain wallet, and jeans that were falling below his back side. Clink, clank went the chain wallet, as the heads of all customers – aged as young as 20 and as old as 75 all stared in his direction, mouths agape and in alarm.
“Does he not have a belt?” an older woman from a table of four older friends inquired in a classic posh London accent. Others mumbled in agreement, and the two attractive young ladies behind the bar – one blonde and one brunette both began to politely ask the bald menace to exit their establishment. Naturally, he pushed back.
“I just want me a Guinness, ain’t that a small favor?” His accent sounded Iberian of some sort, but hard to pin down.
“Sir, we will call the police.” The brunette assured him.
“Oh, sure call the police…yeah, yeah call the police!” the man’s voice rapidly became louder and raspier. This caught the attention of two young men in particular; they looked at each other and shot icy stares in the direction of the messy patron. Reflexively, their fists were clenched.
But the vest wearing hooligan now wobbled back towards the exit, and everyone including these two young men who were previously swimming in laughter and beer then started to exhale. That being said, everyone’s favorite patron came back with one final statement -
“You know what you AHHHH?!” He asked the bartenders.
“What’s that?” The blonde woman asked; they were now amused rather than intimidated.
“You’re a…” he pointed his finger in her direction, once again prompting the attention of the two young men.
“You’re a fucking BEETCH!” He abruptly turned back towards the exit and left. He recklessly clanged his chains as he walked, and his pants barely stayed above knee level. Business resumed as usual in the dim but jolly atmosphere. It was nearly 7:00 in the evening on this late summer Sunday. Like a flock of birds - a cacophony of laughter, dramatic gasps in the midst of storytelling, and the toasting of glasses all hummed through the air.
“I almost wish that guy would’ve tried something.” One of the young men was very Irish looking; he had straight, sandy colored hair with a soul patch and was of a skinny but muscular build. He wore a light flannel shirt with the top three buttons undone. His blue eyes shot across the table like glowing daggers in the night. A loose, metal necklace hung below his shoulders, and his legs were covered in tight, ripped jeans.
This man’s accent was one of a hybrid – American but undoubtedly tinted with a localized British sound. His friend was slightly huskier with curly black hair, tan skin, and heavy sideburns. His mother was Algerian, and his father Albanian. He raised his eyebrows and sloppily slugged his bottle of London Pride beer.
“What do ya mean?” His accent was unmistakably American and from somewhere in the northeast. Despite his being the offspring of a mixed marriage, and being first-generation, most Brits would say that he was “as American as fuck.”
He wore equally tight jeans with a t-shirt that showed a group of four Native Americans holding rifles. It read “Homeland Security: Fighting Terrorism Since 1492.”
“I mean,” the Irish looking one continued. “If that bald guy had gotten closer to those girls – ”
“Oh, right of course!” The curly headed one agreed. “We would’ve busted his ass.”
The two young men finished their beers and paid, anxious to switch location. They stepped outside into the warm, August Westminster air. The light breeze skipped across the Thames River, and the setting sun sparkled off of the Parliament building, Big Ben clock tower, and London Eye Ferris wheel. The more British sounding, Irish looking young man led the way, and they turned down a narrow cobble alleyway to pop into a hole in the wall pub. Cheap Christmas lights wrapped themselves around the doorway like dying baby snakes.
Inside this weakly lit circular room, they took a seat up at the bar rather than at a table. They ordered two Speckled Hens on draft, and the bartender, a dark haired, bi-racial man in his 30s began laughing with appreciation as he pointed to the curly haired man’s Homeland Security t-shirt.
“Oh, mate that’s a great shirt! Where are you from?”
“Thanks, man. I’m from the States. New – “
Before the Algerian – Albanian – American man could finish, the bartender got the attention of some of the other patrons. It was clear that they were all friends. Before the two young men knew it, they were surrounded by a group of eager people mostly in their 20s and 30s, men and women. They all found the t-shirt to be quite the novelty, and by God was it timely. There was Bush and there was Blair. While the former was fulfilling expectations as the rightwing president he was destined to be, Blair was supposed to be the revolutionary prime minister, straying from the conservative politics of old. He had disappointed the masses by his willingness to join Bush in his wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Satire like the one printed on this curly haired American’s t-shirt was just what people needed, and right now the moment was real.
One slightly chubby, but attractive young woman began chatting with the American with the clever t-shirt.
“Where are you from?” she also asked him. He learned that she was from Belgium, but for the past two years had been living in London and working as a paralegal. She looked like she was also of mixed race, Caucasian and East Asian.
“You know, every woman in this world needs three types of men.” As she told this interesting fact to the man he noticed that his friend was talking to a gentleman in his 50s, bald and stocky, wearing a soccer jersey of some sort.
“Let me guess…” started the curly haired man. “A boyfriend..or husband. And a father…”
The young woman nodded, her pretty eyes caked in lavender eye shadow, staring into his soul as he thought hard about the last type of man and cocked his head to the left.
“And a friend…a gay man who is a friend?”
She looked elated and clapped her hands. “Marvelous!” she exclaimed.
“But wait…” he interrupted his own victory. “What if the woman is a lesbian?”
Before she could respond, the conversation was hijacked by his friend’s new friend.
The husky bald man was of Inuit descent. His skin was a light shade of copper, and his eyes were narrow and lit up the room as he smiled. He had now expanded his conversation to both young American men.
“That t-shirt is brilliant, man!” he sounded like Austin Powers, and it was really difficult to gauge where he might be from, but in the twisted labyrinth of his next sentences, he included the fact that he was from the Vancouver area, doing his annual travel rounds of the UK.
The two young men were a few drinks deep and enjoying the company, despite the fact that the attractive young woman had now all but moved to the other side of the room. This new friend had essentially stopped the music and sucked the oxygen out from the entire group that had gathered there to gawk at the political t-shirt.
“Let me get you two princes a drink!” This was already the third time he used the word “princes” to describe the two young men. It all stemmed from the t-shirt. And he came back with three shots of Deward’s scotch.
“I can’t wait to go back to Scotland, man! That’s next on my list. This coming Wednesday!”
The two young men humored him and marveled at how much fun that would be. The Irish looking, slightly British sounding one had been there himself, so he shared some of his own anecdotes.
“Are you going to the Highlands?” he asked, to which the bald stout man replied “Of course I am, man! That’s the main reason I’m going there! And no I’m not shagging the sheep, you sicko!”
The three of them erupted in laughter but for different reasons. Somehow, an hour had passed and the crowds within the pub had totally shifted. The Algerian – Albanian - American man with curly hair did not even get to say goodbye to the young East Asian - Belgian woman, and just like that the other potential friendships or romances were faded into oblivion. But their new friend was keeping them entertained.
“Might I join you two on your next adventure here!” It was more of a proclamation than a question.
They nodded in unison and explained that they didn’t have any firm plans other than crawling from drinking hole to drinking hole. Before the three of them knew it, they were roaming the streets of London Chinatown, soaked in neon signs and glowing red lanterns. They all puffed their pre-rolled cigarettes, and the two Americans answered an array of hypothetical questions from the Canadian traveler.
“What would you do if the power went out?!” he asked them. Immediately after he dropped this question, thunder struck and it began pouring down rain.
“Or what if someone put a disease in the water?” He seemed completely unfazed by the torrential downpour.
They soon ducked into an upscale dim sum restaurant, looking a bit underdressed and out of place. But the owner needed the business on this Sunday night, as most of the tables were empty. The Canadian man insisted on paying for everything.
“What would you princes like to drink?”
The Irish looking man suggested Teacher’s whiskey, so a full bottle came their way with three porcelain shot glasses. It is important to note that earlier in the evening, it had come up that the young men were big fans of The Doors, which prompted their new Canadian friend to quote lead singer Jim Morrison at random several times throughout this outing. He lifted his porcelain glass looking rather serious.
His eyes had become glossy with his right one significantly more shut than his left one, and his face was rather red, as if someone lightly smeared raspberry juice across his chin and cheeks.
“Won’t you please take me to….the next whiskey bar – “
The two Americans laughed in unison and raised their own glasses to toast him.
“OH don’t ask why…OH don’t ask – “
Smash! The Stout bald man dropped his own glass right as the waiter – a tall, middle-aged Chinese man dressed in a shirt and tie and slacks walked by. Most of the whiskey had managed to escape the shot glass and land on his chest and lap area. While he did not look pleased, he took it in stride and casually began wiping down the table and himself with napkins.
The British Canadian traveler was quite apologetic, and then proceeded to raise the tiny remnants of whiskey in his porcelain glass and pointed it towards his new American pals.
“Cheers, boy – sorry, I mean princes.”
They drank together and then settled on some Tsingtao beers.
“No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn.”
Plates of steaming shui mai dumplings and oily stir friend noodles came and went, as did several more ice cold, dripping bottles of Tsingtao and slurred paraphrases from Jim Morrison. Not that any of them were checking the time, but when the clock struck 12:47 AM, the bald one coasted to the restroom.
Once he was inside, he stared in the mirror, pondering life. A smattering of fingerprints interrupted his reflection. He reached into his right pocket and withdrew a switchblade, brandishing it in front of the foggy view of himself. He poked his left index finger, drawing a tiny spot of blood which he immediately licked. He winced at himself in the mirror, and then securely put the weapon back in his pocket. With this he rinsed his hands, wiped them on his shirt, and hurried back to meet the two young men at the table.
The two Americans were mid-conversation, laughing when he returned. His expression was now one of distress, and he pointed to their bottles and dishes urgently.
“What are you two doing?”
They stared at him in confusion.
“Eat your food. Finish your drinks. It’s getting late.”
They started to laugh, assuming this was a joke. The newfound attitude of the bald man could not have been further from what he had exhibited all night. They waited for him to break out in laughter, but he maintained his icy stare. They awkwardly chugged their beers and slurped down the remaining noodles, scallions, and slimy pieces of shrimp.
“What about you?” The curly haired one asked as he pointed to a couple of plump dumplings.
“Prince – ” he corrected himself. “Boy…you don’t need to worry about me.”
The Canadian traveler frantically waived down the waiter, who came by with the check book and boasted a stain on his shirt from the prior mishap with the Teacher’s whiskey. He was glad to have this bill paid and have these three men on their merry way out the door.
“Let’s leave.” The traveler said, and the three of them walked out into the pouring rain.
Trying to make things jovial, the Irish looking man revisited an earlier conversation.
“So, where in Scotland are you staying?”
The Canadian snapped back.
“I’m not telling you! You’ll follow me, man.”
The two Americans lit cigarettes and the Canadian opened his palm, silently demanding one. He took the biggest drag one could imagine, then dropped it into a nearby puddle.
“Do you boys like martial arts?”
It was clear that he was done calling them princes. Before they could answer, he grabbed the Irish looking one by the shoulders. At this hour, nobody else was on these dark, wet Chinatown streets. Some establishments were lit, but most were out, leaving their surroundings quite desolate.
“I’m only going to show you this once.” He pointed to the Algerian – Albanian - American man. “You don’t try anything funny.”
One would think that at this point the two young men’s antennas would be up, but the evening had been so inherently silly that despite the mood swings of their newfound friend, they couldn’t take any of this seriously. He put the sandy haired man with a soul patch in a half nelson and leaned back, temporarily paralyzing him. He expressed some discomfort, but still laughed, as did his friend.
The martial artist’s voice was now ever deep and scratchy.
“A friend is someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself.”
At this the Canadian traveler let go, letting the Irish looking man fall into a large puddle of rain.
Splash!
“For fuck’s sake, man!” He got up, soaking wet. And he and his curly haired friend both looked to realize that their friend of the night was nowhere to be found. Around the corner, in the darkest of alleys, he sat with his head in his hands and his switch blade in his lap.
“It would’ve been too easy. Those princes…those fools. They simply were not worthy.”
Tonight would have been his ninth and tenth murders, respectively. He had been traveling to the UK for four years straight, and each time he prized himself two kills. It had become a twisted tradition of his. But something had not sat right with him on this wet late summer night. He could not pinpoint it, but he now knew in this moment that he would never kill again.
The bald, stocky man carried on through the night until he reached the Waterloo Bridge, where he discarded his weapon into the Thames River. The splash was distant and quiet, much less dramatic then when he’d dropped his Irish-American friend into the puddle.
“Homeland security.” He muttered to himself and stared straight into the water. “It’s just too clever.”
Right after he finished his sentence, he was met with a firm clothesline to the throat. In all of the martial arts classes he took, nothing could have prepared him for this.
He saw the tar black night sky above him as he simultaneously gasped for air and tumbled backwards into the water. He helplessly dropped into oblivion, the faintly illuminated cathedral, “Eye” Ferris wheel, and Big Ben clock tower all hanging above him and the now lonely, grim city they call London. Suddenly, the lights on all three burnt out.
Up on the bridge, a man in a torn-up motorcycle jacket with a shaved head and pants at his knees continued on. Clink, clank went his chain wallet as he roamed the bridge with a sickening pep in his step. He sounded like Jacob Marley in the miserable, war-torn, late summer night.
Clink, clank! Clink, clank!
