Good Life Decisons

[Latin For Dragula]

((Vahka Basayev Continued from Party At My Place))

On his way home he bought some coffee to help clear his head. Half an hour and a tall mug later, he was starting to sober up some. He was considering turning in early and just working through the morning when his phone started buzzing in his pocket.

"I have acquired a large quantity of absinthe! Line your stomach with a steak and get over here."

There went that plan. He shifted the phone in his hand to text his father.

"Change of plans. Crashing at Yag's. Be home sometime tomorrow."

Another number, another message.

"Heat the grill, you crazy bastard. Steaks are on me."

-----

Now he was standing on the front porch of a large brown house, holding a package of two ribeye steaks. They'd required some dipping into his savings, but a while ago Yagmur had convinced him to start a "steak fund." It hadn't let him down yet. He brought the food, Yags brought a ridiculous supply of booze, and they both got a night of shooting the shit and trying to drink each other under the table over good food. It was a pretty even deal.

The door rocked as he knocked. "Steaks are here!" he bellowed out. "Five minutes before I just eat yours raw."

That oughta bring him running.

[General Goose]

"There are certain lines, certain boundaries, that you must not even threaten to cross if you want this friendship to continue," Yagmur announced, shouting down at Vahka with a half-finished bottle of bright green absinthe in one hand. "Threatening the consumption of a steak earmarked for my belly is one of those boundaries." Instead of opening the door and coming from inside the house as Vahka had probably been expecting, Yagmur had apparently been on the roof of the garage.

As he jumped down from the roof, landing with an uneven stumble and a clumsily-orchestrated attempt to remain upright, he strode confidently past his friend, only pausing to take another couple of gulps, and pushed open the door to his home. "My parents are out. Late night working, I suppose." Eyeing the bag in Vahka's hand, he held the door open to allow his friend to enter. "As long as you respect my parents' property rights, my home is your home. Absinthe and other drinks are on the kitchen table, toilet is at the end of the hall, and if need be, toilet doubles up as vomitorium. Which you will need, after I metaphorically drink you under the table."

"Actually," Yagmur added as an afterthought, pursing his lips and then clicking his tongue in concentration, "Romans never vomited as part of their regular dining experience. Vomitoriums were actually the names of the passages underneath the seats in a stadium. Heard that on the radio today, otherwise I would have forgotten that piece of useless trivia in a heartbeat." As they walked down the corridor, it was clear which member of the family had decorated which part of the wall. His parents had put up photos of the family, of their ancestral homes, of newspaper cuttings of their businesses going from strength to strength.

Yagmur had simply placed a large photo of a pretty brunette woman with some breakfast foods on the wall, next to yet another copy of Ron Swanson's pyramid of greatness. His parents found his obsession annoying, despite its positive impact on his work ethic and sense of independence, but it was probably an improvement on his father's obsession with lamps.

As Yagmur opened the kitchen door, a sight that all good men would find glorious greeted them both. The table was covered, with barely enough space to rest one's elbows, with countless bottles of spirits, wines, liqueurs and beers adorning the table, all the continents of the world except for Antarctica represented in alcoholic form. It was a truly multicultural project, a testament to the finest feats of every creed and nationality. There were also a couple of generic mixers of a quality and quantity Yagmur didn't care about, just in case Vahka had accidentally brought one of their weaker-willed friends home from the party.

He'd also prepared for that eventuality by hanging his blood-stained finger-loss shirt on the back of one of the chairs.

[Latin For Dragula]

Vahka just smirked and followed as his drinking buddy swaggered through the door. He was a strange guy, but Vahka could dig it. He had this unique, forward quality to him that let you know exactly where you stood at all times. There was a lot of value in that.

The pyramid on the wall reminded him of something Ronnie had shown him the other day. "I read that Swanson guy's got some ink the other day. Think I've still got the pictures on my phone, they're decent designs. Y'know that means you're gonna have to come down to the shop and let me hook you up someday, right?"

And there it was. Yagmur's dedication to his booze spread had an almost mythical quality to it. Every time the mix brought a low whistle of reverence out of Vahka. This time, however, it was cut-off by a quick laugh as he noticed the bloody shirt hanging over the chair.

"Worried I was bringin' stragglers?"

[General Goose]

"Yes!" Yagmur exclaimed, taking the situation very seriously indeed. "Those weak-willed sissies need to learn how to handle blood. What if the real world decides to bite them in the ass?" Yagmur asked, shrugging his shoulders in a questioning manner. "They must be prepared, or else they will flounder and die," he concluded, matter-of-factly. Seeing a bloodied shirt was clearly sufficient preparation. It was his OH-MY-FUCKING-GOD-MY-FINGERS shirt, after all, a garment that played an important role in his heart.

"And yes, if Ron Swanson gets a tattoo, I shall consider it!" Yagmur announced. He strongly desired to emulate his hero as closely as possible, but that involved thinking for himself. Ron Swanson preached an independent, flexible mind, and Yagmur shall obediently follow such teachings.

[Latin For Dragula]

"Heh," he scoffed as he grabbed a bottle of absinthe and a tumbler, "the only person I'd bring with me watched me drop a bleedin' head on a stage last Saturday. I'm thinkin' she'd pass."

The absinthe washed down his throat as he ran a finger across the shirt. It was sort of impressive how Yagmur just took the whole thing in a stride and used it to learn about people now. He was one resourceful sonuvabitch.

His ears perked up at the concession. It wasn't a promise, but he was taking the idea in, and that made him grin. "Sounds like a fair deal. You'd look good with the right ink, fits that whole rugged, independent thing you got goin' on. I can dig it."

The white package on the table next to the booze beckoned. He hefted it back up and shot the other man a nod. "Whadda say we get these bad boys put on?""

[General Goose]

"Well, unless you were thinking of mailing those steaks to a charity feeding the poor in Africa," Yagmur suggested with a tone of drunk sarcasm brilliantly disguised as sober sincerity, "I believe that will be the best possible option." Grabbing the steaks from under Vahka's nose, he had them cooking within the next minute. Yagmur was a surprisingly cautious cook, even when drunk, but there was no reason not to be cautious when cooking.

He already had a badass deformity, after all.

"So, my friend," he said after attending to the steaks, turning back round to face his drinking companion, "how is life? Everything adequate?" Yagmur had decided against trying to emulate the "don't seem to care about those around you" part of Ron Swanson's whole thing. As he asked this question, he opened another bottle of absinthe, ignoring the still open one lying unloved on the kitchen table, and took a few mouthfuls.

He'd probably have to wash it down with vodka. Didn't want to get drunk too quick.

[Latin For Dragula]

Another mouthful of absinthe kept him from replying right away, so he just shrugged. "'bought as good as can be expected. We're already lined up to do another show for the fair next year, so naturally I'm gonna have to go get shit-faced with the crew at some point. 's the responsible thing t' do."

The chair creaked as he settled back in it and took in the smell of the sizzling meat. Yags knew his steak almost as well as he knew his booze. They were in for a damn good meal.

He waved his bottle-occupied hand out as he spoke. "How about you, hoss?"


-----

And that was the last thing Vahka remembered. He awoke to his phone buzzing against his chest. Danilbek was looking for him.

"Hrrm?"

"Boy. Will I be required to drag you home attached to the bumper, or will you be wandering in on your own?"

"Grrmfer."

"Use your words."

"Fuguf."

"That's the best I'm going to get, I fear. Come home soon, or I'm fetching the chains!"

He closed his ancient flip-phone with a grunt, then looked back at it. The display on the front was flashing. Who else had tried to raise him while he was asleep?

There was a text from Reggie. Several, actually. It looked like he'd replied to most of them. Most of it was pretty weird shit, she'd probably caught him when he was too hammered to filter. One exchange stood out to him, though.

Havin your definition of 'date' overlap with your definition of 'torture' seemed natural at the time, honest.

You clearly didn't learn anything from that lesson.

It was innocuous enough. It even could have been a joke, with the implication in mind. That's exactly how he was gonna take it, unless she decided to go for it. And if she did...that wasn't going to happen. She didn't seem anymore interested in anything serious than he did. Nothing to worry about.

He felt a hell of a lot more sober thinking about it, though.

((Vahka Basayev concluded in The World's A Stage))