Friday, January 05, 2007

Montreal Part I

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The view from my buddy's hotel balcony. Ours faced a dumpster and another building. Bastards.

It is the morning of December 31, and I wake up on the bed that I don't remember getting into. Something is digging into my ribs, and I'm hungover and pissy. Sure enough, it's Chud's hand.


I get up and punch his forearm with as much force as I can muster, and it scares the living shit out of him.

"What the fuck?"

"You keep your fucking arm on your side of this fucking bed."

He passes back out instantaneously, and his hand flops back to where it was. I shake my head.

I light a cigarette, and walk into the living room of the hotel room we're staying at. It was supposed to be just a regular hotel room, but it was upgraded to a suite because my buddy not only booked it ten blocks from downtown, but also in the gay section. To be fair, the broad at the counter lied to him and said it was right near everything, but still...the fucking gay section? Either way, the lady felt bad putting us an arctic trek away from everything good in this city, so they put us in a nicer room.

Frank is awake, and he's got the phone book out and the phone glued to his ear. It's ten o'clock.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Calling whores."

It's New Year's Eve, and he's calling whores.

"I wanna lesbian show. You wanna get in?"

All I can think about is that these girls are going to be fucking hideous, being as it's a holiday and I'd imagine even whores get the day off and their backups probably suck.


"You sure?"

"Yup. I don't want fucking crabs from some French whore."

"They're Canadian."


Bulletproof turns his head towards me from the pillow. We call him Bulletproof because the last time he was in Canada, he told one of the bartenders that he got shot fifteen times and survived, and so the bartender wrote, "Bulletproof" on his tab and nailed it to the wall. I don't think he even had to pay. It also fits him in that he starts fights everywhere he goes and somehow comes out unscathed.

Bulletproof looks at me. "He's been doing this for an hour. He already called five different numbers."

From the other room, I hear Chud start yelling, "Chud likes boobies....Chud LIKES BOOBIES!" He picked up the other phone and has started yelling while Frank is trying to get his whores.


We are a mess.

Eventually, Chud is brought to full hungover conciousness. He walks out of the bedroom.

"I knocked out a homeless guy last night."

"Sure you did, Chud," I say. He lies. A lot. About everything.

"No, seriously," and he holds up his hand, which is twice the size of what it should be. For once, he's not bullshitting.

I can only start laughing.

"I fuckin fell on the ice last night leaving the strip club, and all these coins fell out of my pocket. This homeless guy ran over and started grabbing all my money and shit. I got fucking pissed."

Chud is the kind of guy that would likely have given this homeless guy all he had, just because he's that nice.

"Yea, so he starts grabbing all my money, so I got up and said, 'What the fuck? I fall, and you don't even help me up, you just start grabbing all my money?' Then he fucking pushed me. So I cracked him. He got fuckin airborn."

Chud has what we would call "retard strength", and he's a big guy anyway, being around 6'1 and in the neighborhood of 250. On the rare occasion that he gets pissed off, it's best to stay out of his way.

"So you knocked out a homeless guy."


I think about it for a second. "Well, he fucking deserved it. He'll think twice before robbing a drunk American."

"Damn right."

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