Pro-Tip for Humans #188: Don't piss off the guy who can make you disappear.

Blink...

Boobs. All good bar crawls need to involve boobs at some point. I don't know how I had ended up staring at the faceful of full, round, and perky boobs only inches from my face, but I could only assume it was pure luck on my part. A moment later, a finger under my chin gently but firmly tilted my face upward. I could only smile happily at the owner of the boobs, a very pretty Thai girl with a spray of glitter on her face and a head of platinum blonde hair down to her ass that contrasted sharply with her brown skin. Most likely suicide blonde: dyed by her own hands.

"See something you like?" Suicide Blonde teased and wiggled ever so delightfully in a way that made her boobs boob ever so boobily. She was a tall girl and the backless slinky silver dress was barely enough to contain her boobs. If she raised her arms, there would have been a lot of sideboob on display, and I wasn't complaining.

"I have no idea how I got here, but I am never leaving," I said drunkenly and happily.

"So, do you still miss your ex's boobs?"

"The words, 'not-at-all' come to mind," I lied, the faded memory of Jaime's small and perky boobs flashing across my consciousness. There it was, that pang of longing that came from thinking about Jaime and I tried to shake it off, after all: boobs. In. My. Face.

"You're sweet," Suicide Blonde flirted.

"Harry's going to skin this guy if he catches him in between your boobs like that," a bored sounding voice spoke up behind me. I looked past Suicide Blonde to see who was determined to ruin my enjoyment of such a wonderful and giving paid of boobs. It was a tall leggy brunette who wore a similar dress to Suicide Blone, but she had not been gifted with similar boobage. She stared at her phone, idly flicking through the screens as if to communicate just how bored she was of this entire situation. Her eyes flicked toward me and they were merciless and condescending as fuck.

"Oh lighten up," Suicide Blonde said, "no rules against having fun."

"And just when I thought your standards couldn't get any lower."

I was about to say something pithy and no doubt extremely witty and cutting, but I caught sight of the entire bar for the first time and the words died in my mouth.

The place was huge, almost cavernous with ridiculously high ceilings that somehow still had excellent acoustics for the karaoke singing that was currently in progress.  Apparently we were in some kind of karaoke bar that was clearly compensating for something. The enormous stage at the front with the numerous stage lights looked more suited for a huge jazz band than for a singer with a microphone and a monitor. Even with the enormous neon sign that proclaimed "Karaoke at HTDK" (with the HTDK in a rendered logo), it was clear that karaoke wasn't the main business of this club. There was a visibly drunk middle-aged Chinese man on stage, slurring his words through a drunken version of Sweet Child of Mine. The striped tie around his forehead made him more idiotic instead of looking like the rebel he had been hoping for.

The bar itself looked like an old factory of some kind that had been converted into a nightclub. The second-floor overhang started at least 30 feet up. It overlooked the entire first floor with a solid floor-to-ceiling wall of thick black glass. It sent the clear signal that upstairs was exclusive as hell, and if you weren't invited, you weren't wanted.

Across the black glass, a projected logo alternated between the HTDK logo and the words "The Hall of the Drunken King".

We were sitting at a low circular glass table in comfortable couches that in turn encircled the table in four rounded sections. Claude sat directly across from me with his arms around two girls who also wore the slinky low-backed shimmery silver dresses that seemed to be the costumes of these particular club girls. They both had long legs that went on for days and sent the signal that they were either very expensive call-girls or models. I don't know why I thought that, okay? They were tall, skinny and I was drunk, so whatever.

Claude and the girls were all laughing, one of the girls wrapping her long fingers through Claude's hair, the other one with her hand on his leg.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled with a glare at Bored Brunette. "What was I saying before? Please tell me it was hilarious."

"You were saying some girl screwed you over," Suicide Blonde murmured and squeezed my leg again, her hand suspiciously higher up my leg.

"So definitely not funny," I sighed. That sounded about right, and this girl, whoever she was just smiled at me.

"Nah, you're sweet," Suicide Blonde said, "I've always been a sucker for sad stories and bad boys."

"Am I the bad boy in this equation?" I gulped.

"You'd better be," she confirmed and in a smooth almost snake-like move, darted her head forward and licked my earlobe.

I definitely had a half-chub at that point and my drunk self was not having a great time realigning itself with reality. Girls like this never found me that interesting and I had the feeling I was about to fumble badly. Had Suicide Blonde told me her name at some point? She must have told me, but her name was buried in the fog of drunkenness and the rush of excitement that had made its way to my pants wasn't helping in any way. Yet, I was having fun, right? So much goddamn fun.

The drunk Chinese guy moped off the stage to a very scattered and unenthusiastic applause from the handful of people at the bar, and a new singer took the microphone, the opening chords of Every Rose Has Its Thorn grabbing my full attention. I glared hatred towards the stage, convinced that the universe was totally fucking with me. Yes, another song from Jaime's playlist. It was like the soundtrack of my life was playing today.

My head throbbed in time with the music, each pulse causing my pickled brain to press against my skull. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, scream into the void that was coming for me, fight back, do anything, anything at all.

I did the only thing that was logical at the time: I reached out a hand unsteady from the sudden rush of adrenaline and downed my glass of whiskey.

Suicide Blonde squeezed my knee, sending a jolt to adrenaline through my brain. I tore my gaze away from the stupid fucking singer on the stage and directed all of my drunken attention at this gorgeous girl who wasn't Jaime. Was she pushing her boobs forward in a way that sent my heart racing again? Why yes she was and they were mesmerizing but--

"Everything reminds me of her," I slurred.

"I want to help you forget her," the blonde said breathily, and biting her bottom lip, leaned in closer to me, all sultry and seductive. I blinked rapidly, confused and then smiled lopsidedly. Was this chick really that into me? What the hell was going on?

Bored Brunette watched us in disgust, but then something caught her attention and she mouthed one word, which might have been "Harry."

"Time to go, girls," a deep authoritative voice said from behind me. The voice itself wasn't threatening, but it triggered some deep primal urge to run and hide and wait for the monster to go away.

It was a weird feeling for me, but it had a different effect on the girls. It was as if someone had flipped a switch. They immediately got to their feet, all friendly smiles now aimed directly at the mystery man. Suicide Blonde smiled crookedly and winked at me as she stepped away with the other girls, no doubt into the arms of Mr Mystery. Harry, whoever the fuck he was.

I glanced across the low table at Claude, and he just shrugged nonchalantly, but the signal was there if you knew what to look for: Cool it, don't make a scene.

I turned to see who this dude was and understood everything immediately.

The first thing I saw was the pair of brilliant blue eyes that seemed to burn in the dim club interior as if they were able to reach deep into my soul and burn it to a crisp. That primal sense to run was back again, clamouring for attention but I ignored it, mesmerized by the man.

There are certain people you can refer to as "dude", "man", or even "guy." The Middle Eastern man shepherding the girls away from our table was what you could only call "an older gentleman." He didn't look like your average Harry, but once you saw him, the name fit perfectly. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, but in one glance, I got the sense that he had looked like that for a very long time, almost as if he had been born fully-formed. His brown skin contrasted sharply with the strikingly pale blue eyes that seemed to be assessing me with a hard stare and didn't like what they saw. He wore an extremely well-tailored grey suit that had been designed to make people like me feel inadequate just for existing. Whoever this gentleman was, he was dirty rotten filthy stinking rich, and he was dangerous as fuck.

The girls swirled around him, and he tilted his head in our direction as he turned to leave.

"Who the fuck are you?" Some drunken idiot slurred. After a second, I realized that the drunken idiot was me.

I was already on my feet, swaying unsteadily. Claude stared at me from across the table, taking the moment to facepalm himself at my stupidity.

Harry slowly turned to look at me again, but for a second, my attention was focused on the women behind him. What struck me in that single moment was the identical looks of terror on their faces. Okay, Bored Brunette looked more amused than anything else, but the other three, they were terrified for me, faces pale, eyes darting from me to the gentleman and back again. Suicide Blonde mouthed the word "no," her hands going to her face.

"Leave this place," the gentleman said evenly, no emotion at all.

I meant to stand up for myself, say something quippy that would have ended up with me getting punched, but that didn't happen, no—

Blink...

I found myself outside on the sidewalk, staring at the huge, old and iron-bound wooden doors that led into the club. I had no recollection of how I had gotten there, and since there were no burly bouncers hoisting me into the air by my arms, nor was I face down in the gutter, I must have brought myself outside.

Holy fucking shit! Had I actually just listened to that dude and walked myself out of the goddamn place?

In drunken defiance, I took a step toward the doors—

I found myself turning away, deciding that it wasn't worth my time anyway, and maybe I should just wait out here for Claude—and what the fuck had just happened?

Claude strolled out a minute later, looking as suave as fuck. In his suit and crisp white shirt, he wasn't rocking the same disheveled, drunken, day-drinker vibe I was. He had both of our coats draped over one arm.

"Well, that was interesting," Claude noted as he passed my coat to me and I shrugged it on. "You just pissed off Harry De Biers the third and you're still in possession of all your limbs."

"It was time to leave anyway," I mumbled. Then: "Who the fuck is Harry Beers the whatever?"

"Very, very rich. Possible mob-boss depending on who you ask."

"Never heard of him," I said, indignant.

Claude looked at me levelly and seriously. "And that is exactly why you should be fucking terrified of a man like him."

I glared at the bar. I didn't want to be there anyway, so whatever.

"Fuck this place," I said, and I actually meant it. I had no intention of ever stepping back inside that stupid club ever again. I perked up. "So, where to next?"

Blink...

We were in Claude's condo, or at least I think it was his condo. He moved house every few months, and I hadn't seen his new place since there were weeks that would go by without us actually seeing each other. We had the kind of relationship where time didn't matter and we could pick up in the middle of a conversation as if we had been talking just minutes before. It had amazed Jaime to no end that we never actually said hello or goodbye to each other. Our friendship wasn't based on seeing each other every day: it went far beyond that, so no, I hadn't seen his new place yet.

It was definitely a condo though, and Claude was in the kitchen banging around with pots and pans, making a general ruckus which honestly seemed designed to wake me up. Fucker.  He was way too comfortable in the space, so it had to be his condo, right? It would be extremely stupid to take me to somebody else's condo, the state I was in.

I felt the pressure of the firm couch cushion under my butt and squeezed with my hand, feeling the tight, expensive leather. I slumped forward, but that wasn't comfortable, then decided to try sitting. When that didn't work, I slowly laid back, decided that maybe that was not such a great idea since somebody had decided to install a stupid spinning ceiling. I sat back up, muscles turning to jelly and just so fucking useless. The ceiling, of course, decided to change direction at that moment, and that was the thing that just fucked with my head even more. There was the taste of bile at the back of my throat that I tried to swallow and tried to ignore, but I knew what that taste meant, and I was already on my feet, staggering on jellied legs toward what I hoped was the bathroom.

My instincts were right, so of course, I made it just in time. I have a Masters's degree in getting fucked up and prided myself on never having puked on myself or in the back of anyone's car. There was no fucking way I was going to be throwing up like some punk all over Claude's living room.

"You okay?" Claude called from the other room, and I thought to answer, but ended up puking again, my stomach heaving and clenching as it emptied the contents into the toilet bowl while I hung on for dear life.

Fuck! I hated how that felt.

I somehow made it to my feet again, stomach empty, brow sweaty and clammy, aware that I could hear Claude rummaging around for something.

"You know what sucks?" I asked as I walked back into the living room. "It's that I can't even hate Jaime. None of this is her fault. It's all me."

"Didn't we do this six months ago?"

"It's different this time. Last time, she just dumped me. I could deal with that, you know? This time, she's fucking moved on. It's like we meant nothing, like I meant nothing to her."

"You know that isn't true, right?"

"My head knows it isn't true, but my heart is a selfish asshole, okay?" I collapsed onto the uncomfortable couch, and the room failed to spin this time.

Claude shrugged. "Look: you need to get some sleep. You're fucking drunk, and Louise wants you to meet her tonight at Cecil's. Plus if you don't show up for work, Sammy is going murder you and then come looking for me."

"Work can kiss my ass," I sighed. I turned my head to look at Claude but he had vanished. "Is Louise really coming out? I haven't seen Louise in ages."

"Get some fucking sleep, man."

Something clicked and there was a hum as something mechanical came to life. The room slowly darkened as thick shades lowered over the window, cutting off all of the offensive sunlight. I didn't know it at the time, but it would be the last direct sunlight I would be looking at.

"Did you just do that?" I called out. "Tell me you just did that, becasue it's tripping me the fuck out man."

"Go to sleep Bob," Claude called from far away, his voice echoing in the space.

"You know the one problem with this place?" I called out after a moment.

No answer from Claude.

I sighed deeply and provided the answer for myself: "Not a single boob in sight."

Black.

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Soundtrack: Every Rose Has It's Thorn - Poison