I looked the bartender straight in the eye, smiled and assured him that I was okay and just wanted to leave, so he let me go. I walked past my new friend towards the exit, looking like a fool without my hood. As I walked up the first turn, I saw that he was following me, presumably to finish me off, but also perhaps to apologize and offer me some of his liquor that I so coveted. When he kicked me down and yelled at me, I realized that it was not the latter. Someone pulled him off and I kept walking until I got to the street. A crowd of bystanders could already sense something amiss.
More voyeurs flooded up the steps of Almost Famous to gawk. I don't blame them, street fights are like porn; interracial is always more exciting. I turned around to face The Bear Killer. He must have felt guilty about kicking me from behind earlier, either that or he just wanted a second to rile up the crowd and curse at me some more. He rushed me down, cheeky guy I have to admit, though I'd have given him more credit if he'd been picking on someone his own size. I stepped forward with my left foot and kissed him. I didn't see what happened next as my right hand was guarding my face, but I heard it, and I felt it.
Not even the toughest fighters spar with elbows- they are the iron, sharp, nasty things that cut through skin, in contrast to the clenched fist, which although used as a symbol of power, is essentially a bag of the softest, weakest bones and joints of a human body.
The Bear Killer went down like a bag of Jews. I caught sight of him a second after the impact; the lower half of him folded like his knees took one look at gravity and said, “Fuck it.” Anyone with empathy would have felt sorry. I unzipped my fly. His friends surrounded him and The Canadian pulled me back, my dreams of urination were over now. I didn't know enough Korean to get my point across, so I yelled, “Jo-a-yo?”, turned around and pointed to Pudding Dog on my back, which amusingly left the ordeal unscathed. True to the pacifist nature of his country of origin, The Canadian whisked me away as I fumbled my pants back on.
“Dude you need to calm down. Let's walk, I'm gonna get you a beer.”
“What was that guy's problem, man? I want to go back and fuck his faggot mouth. He had no business grabbing me like that. Let's go back, I'll put a fucking baby inside him.”
“NO, dude. That was a loud crack. He's gonna be feeling that tomorrow.”
I kept glorifying male on male sexual assault with The Canadian until the reality of my tattered pink hoodie hit me. The hood, leapord-print ears and all was gone. All that was left was the bear face on the front. The white bartender who separated us caught up to us and apologized to me and invited us back inside. It brought my spirits back up momentarily, and it would be a waste of a night to mourn now.
I had two numbers in my phone from girls who I labeled 'hey' and '?'. The Girl From Daegu I'd left wherever I found her, and the two surgery clinics I brought from Thursday Party were long gone. It was time to initiate Plan C.
Remember that scene in Family Guy when Peter asks people around the bar, “Are you Richard Simmons's cousin, Richard Simmons?”
That was me.
“You speeaak ENGLISH?”
“You look like you speak English. Do you speak ENGLISH?”
I was having no luck, so I left to pursue more potential surrogates to bear my abortion. Something blacker than night caught my attention while I was talking to one such candidate. The one person who could've distracted me from my task was walking towards me. I said Hi.
“It's Charlie Murphy! WHADAMI GONNA DO ABOUT MY HOOD CHARLIE MURPHY?”
But it wasn't. It wasn't even a guy wearing a Charlie Murphy costume. I realized when he just shook his head and walked past, that he was supposed to be Andy Samberg from Dick in A Box. To his credit he did have a box that I missed, presumably with a dick in it. But why the hell did he have a fro? There's no way did he not look in the mirror and say, “Damn, being black and all, I look exactly like Charlie Murphy right now.”
The war I was fighting with booze turned to one of attrition by the time I crawled into Blue Monkey. I got five minutes into a conversation with a giant-eyed Korean and her Unamused Friend before I stopped feeling like it was worth the effort. I decided to just beg her for sex instead of tricking someone into it like I usually do.
Snigger all you want at the Costanza method and its variations, but whatever I was doing before, it wasn't working. Without a wingman, I brought her and her Unamused Friend out of the bar under the pretense of going, “somewhere else”. When we got to her car, she countered my offer of sex on the spot with a ride to Seomyeon, details negotiable later. A hard bargain, because Seomyeon was closer to my place, but she was on the wrong side of .08. I got in and prepared to die by updating my Facebook status and Twitter.
Crazy Taxi got beers and smokes for her and her friend while I waited outside. Possibly because of my act of prudishness, she re-opened negotiations:
“My friend wants to sleep. We should go back to the apartment now.”
I told her, “Let me in on that and you've got yourself a deal.”
When this didn't work, I started towards the Subway to hobo-nap until the first train. I know I could've called a cab, but Jewbargain takes fifty minutes to power down and the first train was due in thirty. She called my name out and had me running back lapping at her heels.
Unamused Friend took her position on the floor while I flung my clothes off in the bed. Logistics were not in my favor, but in the end Crazy Taxi even threw in cowgirl for free. I'm not the biggest fan of that or drunk sex, but this time it was satisfactory for all parties involved.
The night ended on a double edged sword: She woke me up at eight, but DUI'd me halfway home to visit her mother with cum in her hair. All in all, this was one of my most eventful nights in Busan, I just wish my pink hoodie could've seen it through to the end.