Cuban Consumption Crisis II

After a few days of ripping the beach and getting piss drunk around the resort, we all decided to try out one of the local clubs. There were club promotions scattered around the bars so we just chose one people at the resort claimed was alright. We handed, what appeared to be a Cuban club promoter, $20 American each and he gave us back a bracelet he claimed granted us access to unlimited alcohol. We’ll see about that you thieving swindler I remember thinking. I was sure he was readying himself for a dash down the hall after we handed him the cash. He stayed and surprisingly, the son of a bitch bastard was honest. There was alcohol to my hearts content which led me down the path of drunken stupidity and outright humiliation.

 There were five of us going out. BrownTown, the Ukraine and I along with a couple we met from Kingston (I think, Hamilton maybe? Ontario for sure). MJK stayed behind because she was tired, definitely not because I tied her to a chair and left her in our room with a slightly pierced bottle of water hanging above her so that drops would come out every minute or so. We had to find our own way down to the club which was a bit strange. There were cabbies lined up in front of the resort and each was trying to negotiate a flat rate for a ride to the club. I’m sure they were all trying to under sell each other but we just jumped into a random cab, offered $10 American and drove off. I don’t remember the club’s name and to be honest, it’s not worth remembering. It was a fucking hole.

 We had been smashing drinks at the pool bar prior to our departure so it’s safe to say we were all pretty cooked. The ride to the club was quick and there didn’t appear to a lineup. People were however showing up in droves. We assumed they were generally resort dwellers who left their own pool bars at midnight and made their way to the club. The club itself was a disappointment. I hate them to begin with but I expected something a little more extravagant when it came to impressing tourists. Ultimately it didn’t matter because there was only one reason I went and that was to get hammered.

 The bars were packed with jackals trying to hoard as many drinks as possible. I made it out of there with a few rum and cokes, spilling some of it on myself. We stayed near the dance floor, had our drinks and then the Ontario people left to go dance. We had a few more rounds and, I’m embarrassed to say, I was hammered. I was staggering around, clinging to strangers and bumping into people as they humped their respective partner(s). We ran into some girls who recognized us from the resort and started dancing with them. It was pretty harmless I guess, I was badly twisted so I couldn’t do much harm. After awhile I left to take a squirt and this was the beginning of the end.

 I never found the bathroom, I never found my friends, I got lost and was in a drunken panic. I was slowly getting the fear due to the heat, the people dancing around me and the random eye contact I was making with strange people. I finally bumped into the Ontario people but I was too deep into this mindfuck of a situation to stay with them. I told them I was going to catch a cab back to the resort and to warn my friends. I was fucked. I stumbled out some exit into a seedy alley and then onto a street. By some miracle there was a cab just sitting there. I flagged him, crawled into the backseat and told him where to take me. Before he could say anything, I threw a $20 at him, said something which I can only assume was Spanish and off we went. The next morning I woke up naked, very sore and confused in my room.

 I couldn’t piece the night together very well. I remembered speaking some kind of language with the cabbie, getting to the hotel, deciding I wasn’t as drunk as I feared (I was) and ended up going to the resort disco where they still served booze. I don’t know what time it was, all I know is I sat down next some burly guy with a handle bar moustache and started shooting the shit. I noticed some tattoos on his forearms so I made a crack about prison, he didn’t laugh. I made a crack about the Hell’s Angels, he didn’t laugh and gave me a menacing look. Being too drunk to catch on, I stuck with the H.A. conversation telling him I was from Québec and how wild it was for awhile with the biker wars in the 90’s. He put up with me but wasn’t warming up. That is until I fell off my stool into a puddle of booze on the ground.

 Mr. Hell immediately began squealing with laughter. I was lying on the ground wondering how the hell I got there while this big tattooed guy was picking me up and slapping my back hooting like he’d just heard the best joke of all time. He bought a few rounds of gasoline rum, which he said would straighten me out, and continued on with my ramblings about organized crime. I don’t know my ass from my elbow when it comes to organized crime so I probably sounded severely retarded. I had read Hunter S. Thompson’s Hell’s Angels book about Sonny Barger and his gang in the sixties way the fuck out in California and that was about it. He listened to me and wound up being a pretty decent guy. Terrifying but decent. He ended up hooking us up with a private snorkeling expedition with some locals a few days later.

 After some time of what I can only assume was me making a drunken spectacle out of myself, I gave Mr. Hell the power arm shake (I don’t know how else to describe it) and stumbled off back to my room. I slipped right by the exit door and heard Mr. Hell bellowing with laughter again. I’m pretty sure I crawled to a support and lifted myself up. I was full of shit water and booze, it was awful. I made my way up the stairs where two maids were mopping the floor. Well, I fucking slipped and fell on my ass right in front of them. And those bitches laughed their ass off at me. Awesome. At this point I became desperate. I literally only remember looking at my feet, molesting the wall and basically stumbling in the general direction of my room. I don’t remember finding it, but it would seem I did.

 I woke up the next morning to phone calls from Brown Town and the Ukraine to which I shouted into the receiver “I WILL NOT EAT CAT POOP!” (I was in my Anchorman phase) before throwing the phone across the room. I slept all day, missed out on an apparent boating excursion and generally felt sorry for myself. MJK came in at around 3 pm glowing while telling I had come back to the room and guaranteed marriage. It didn’t end up working out.