The bartender brought my Baileys, lime and lemonade to the bar and took my money from me. He was far too polite to say it, but I could sense his disgust at my creamy, citrus-tinged drink of choice. I poured some Benadryl into the glass and swilled it around in my hand to allow it to properly curdle.
I was at a pub called the Red Violin, a Victorian-era themed establishment upholstered in red velvet and aged wood. Early in the night, it played host to roving gangs of university students and other young adults looking to enjoy some quiet drinks before moving on to a real club. With midnight fast approaching, the bar was beginning to fill up with people of African descent, and, apart from a scrappy, unshaven guy hitting on the DJ's girlfriend, I was the only white man remaining.
Om nom nom
Will this hit me as soon as the bag breaks? I thought, or will my stomach acid have to eat through the shoe as well? Luckily, my plan worked, and within a few minutes the police had left the building.
"Thanks for that man, I would've been in a heap of trouble if they'd found me with that. How'd you manage not to get grabbed?"
He let out a high pitched, feminine giggle, and I felt my left ear start to bleed a bit.
"Come on, mate, where's my stuff?" He was standing so close to me that our noses were almost touching, and with my back to the wall I couldn't back away any further. He was obviously wired; yet even with his eyes bugging out of his head he still managed to look half-asleep. He may even have been snoring.
"Well when I saw that dog, I panicked a little, and I swallowed the whole bag," I explained.
Matthew's lip quivered, and he reached up and ran his hands through his hair as he stumbled backwards, confused and hurt. Suddenly, he let out a scream, grabbing the basin with both hands and, in two full-body pulls, tearing it away from the wall. He hurled it across the room, the huge block of china sailing through the air in a short arc, before exploding against the upper back of a man in a Boston Celtics jersey. He hit the wall and slid to the floor, unconscious. Despite trying really hard not to, I laughed a little bit.
Matthew let out a sobbing, choking noise; "Ooooooooooohhhhh shit, we've gotta get out of here!" he gasped. "I'm on a good behaviour bond, I can't get pinched for this!"
I pursed my lips and shook my head. "No can do, hombre, I've still got this half bottle of Benadryl to finish, and if we leave here I'm never going to be allowed into another bar." It was true; I was wearing a pair of bright orange sneakers, Australian flag-print boardshorts, a t-shirt reading 'Don't Taze Me Bro' and a candy-blue suit jacket. I hadn't bothered to get changed before I went out after the cricket, and short of being mistaken for an off-duty Hooley Dooley, there was no way I'd be allowed into a pub or club at this hour.
The only question is... which one was I?
Matthew laughed that effeminate laugh again, slapping me on the back. He grinned widely through the streams of tears rolling down his cheeks. "Hey, you're forgetting who you're with. I'm a star! I was in Underbelly!"
He was holding me by the shoulders, his fingers alternately digging into my collarbone in what was apparently a cocaine-addled attempt at a reassuring gesture. Before I could say another word, he led me down the stairs and out into the street.
Walking alongside him, I looked over. The expression on his face could only be described as moody; his mouth was a tightly-closed slit, his fluffy, patchy beard was lined with white powder and beer foam, and his pupils darted around independently of his head. Despite this intense expression, I swear I could hear him laughing, the sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest, where a normal person might keep their soul.
Arriving at another bar, Matthew dragged me to the front of the line. The Maori-looking bouncer stopped him in his tracks.
"Sorry bro, you and the Hooley Dooley aren't coming in here."
Matthew tilted his head and stared at him, moving his eyebrows up and down and tightening his eyes. It was clear that he was hoping the bouncer would eventually recognise him if he just went through every facial expression he knew. Either that, or he was trying to use a Jedi mind trick.
Somehow; it worked. The bouncer narrowed his gaze and leant in a bit, a wave of recognition sweeping over his face. He turned and motioned to his co-worker.
"Hey, Smithy, check it out. It's the guy from Underbelly."
Matthew straightened up, adjusting his collar in a Fonzie-like manner and walking forward. The bouncer stopped him again.
"Hey Underbelly, do that New Zealand accent you're so good at."
Matthew's jaw dropped slightly, he looked over at me, confused, then back to the sneering bouncers. I saw his fists clench at his sides and his eyes roll around in his head. He spat and grabbed me, dragging me off in search of another bar.
"It's no use," I said. "Don't you know that ALL bouncers are Kiwis?"
Sure enough, every club we passed had a New Zealander on the door, until we came to one in a laneway, with a line of goths waiting to get in. My gut churned; I hoped that it was as a result of the guy with those earlobe stretchy-thingies and not because the bag of coke had split in my stomach.
Vindicated by the discovery of a bar that didn't have a Kiwi bouncer, he turned around and got right up in my face, forcing victorious laughter as he jabbed me with his index finger.
Fifteen minutes later, when he'd finished celebrating his victory, Matthew marched up to the door, and the girl with the stamp looked at him once and scoffed.
"Sorry, X-Factor, I don't think this is your kind of scene."
Matthew cocked back his arm to take a swing at her, and I grabbed him around the chest, dragging him back towards the street.
"I was in Queen of the Damned! You people love me!" I let him go and he roared, punching in the window of a passing taxi. The random destruction of property set off a lightbulb in his head, and he turned to me.
"My hotel!" he cheered. "We can go back, you can take some of the charcoal tablets in my suitcase and throw up my cocaine, and then take whatever you want from the minibar!"
I shrugged; I'd swallowed worse things than charcoal in the past in order to get a drink.
Can you guess which of the above it was?
***
After trying every single card in his wallet, Matthew finally found his door key, and we burst into his $500-per-night suite. Every surface was made of marble; marble floors, walls, a marble bed with a marble mattress. On the marble couch sat the most beautiful blonde girl I'd seen all night.
Matthew raced into the bathroom and came out holding a handful of charcoal tablets, which he proceeded to jam into my mouth and wash down with the closest thing at hand, a bottle of Listerine.
Years of drinking alone had dampened my gag reflex, so it wasn't until the third or fourth bottle of mouthwash that I finally vomited; a minty-green flavoured spray of creamy consistency, which ran down the back of the 64-inch television and pooled on the floor, steaming and burning through to the level below.
Giggling like somebody's mother, Matthew dove on the child's shoe and pulled out the baggy, running into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. I was alone, with only an incredibly beautiful woman for company, so I did what I normally do and cracked the minibar.
Five minutes of vigorous snorting later, Matthew emerged from the bathroom. His hair, which was normally carefully styled to look as though he'd just got out of bed, was pointing in all directions; his head was swaying, and a trickle of bright red blood was running from his left nostril.
"HEY MAN!" I'm not sure if he meant to shout. "WANT TO MAINLINE SOME STRAIGHT SCOTCH?"
Before I could answer, he grabbed every one of the airline-sized bottles of Johnny Walker and ran back into the bathroom with them.
Taking that as an invitation to keep whatever was left, I shovelled every single item out of the minibar into my pockets and fled. Making it onto a tram, I let out a sigh of relief; that was one crazy night.
A sense of dread crept up my spine, and suddenly, my phone rang. It was Matthew.
"Oi, where are ya?" he snarled. I have no idea how he got my number. He started threatening me, telling me all the things he was going to do when he found me, and like one of the bedtime stories I imagine an alcoholic father might tell his children, it put me straight to sleep.
I awoke, six hours later, and Matthew was still on the other end of the phone, crying and apologising to me. I hung up, rubbing my eyes, and staggered off the train. The sun was rising in the distance; it was a new day, and the first day of the rest of my life.
Diecesiete later received a fine for illegal parking from Victoria Police, which he never paid. Today, still wanted by the State Debt Recovery Office, he survives as a Soldier of Fortune. If you have a problem, if nobody else can help, and if you can find him... actually, you're probably better off just living with your problem.
The beautiful blonde woman received accolades for her part as 'that Aussie chick in Transformers'. Today, she holds several AVO's against Matthew Newton and makes a living detailing their relationship to women's magazines and Today Tonight.
Matthew ended the night with a $4000 damage bill to his hotel room, including a $69.50 phone bill and $500 minibar tab. He resigned his part as a judge of the X-Factor in order to pursue a role at the Betty Ford Clinic, starring as a 'patient'.
