British Psycho

Dexter raved and drooled whenever he had something on his mind. Cleopatra’s, the new eatery on Floyd Avenue was the hottest place in town according to his sources. We’ll hit the place at lunchtime, he said. Parking the car round the bend we headed for the entrance.

“Not today, gents.” our way was blocked by an imposing male, impeccably dressed.

“We have a reservation.” pleaded Dexter.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s not getting in.” The doorman pointed at me. The more I looked at him, the more he resembled Heimdall, the sentry of Asgard. The guardian of the Rainbow Bridge was refusing us entry to the place of gold. This was a frosty reception.

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked. As far as I was concerned there was nothing wrong with my appearance.

“Ink on your shirt.”

I looked at my shirt. Sure enough, there was an ugly black pool of oil spreading over my chest. “My pen is burst.” I gushed silently to myself. I took the offending implement from my breast pocket. It dripped like a beaten fighter’s nosebleed onto the pavement.

“At least I’ll be able to get in,” said the unsympathetic Dexter, “I love the saying, it is not enough that I succeed, others must fail.” Dexter took a step forward and was met by the fierce grip of the doorman’s fist. This had the potential to be a gory moment. Heimdall had a sharp tongue to go with his, hidden for the moment, equally sharp swords.

“You’re not getting in either. You’re guilty by association. On your way, gents”

Now we’re eating our sandwiches in the run of the mill Spartan Bar. The place was full of the hangers-on and hangers-out and middle of the road fraternity. We’re squashed in here because my ball point took a leak. Dexter’s spirits had perked up and he piped.

“The best bouncer story ever was the time ten of us tried to get into Bo Derek’s nightclub. The steward was not having it. “I can’t let ten men in at the one time”. This gave us an excuse to go through all the formations to the bemused keeper of the door. What about four of us get in then three then another three. Or four-four-two. More attackingly you could let us in four-two-four. You know that soon we’re exhausting all the possibilities using improbable line-ups. Two-three-one-two-two. Five-one-three-one. There was a huge queue forming behind us yet still we were churning out systems. Blackie was a bit drunk and his counting went to pot. He had eleven men in his team.”

I’d heard all this before. Dexter added.

“It’s a pity that the nightclub wasn’t called Cleopatra’s. I’d have said “Why don’t you let us in using the pyramid system?”

Dexter laughed a big loud laugh opening his mouth wide as the Nile. What I’d give to fill that orifice with dark ink. In fact, I’d love to go farther and drown Dexter in a vat of ink. He’d be in tattoo heaven and I’d be feeling well.