Death To Ukrainian Prostitutes by N.P. Yuggoth

It's Thursday night in Upper Michigan.  A rainy, shitty night in mid November with nothing to do.  I've been staying with my brother and his wife for a few weeks.  And though I am quite fond of my sister in law's cooking, I really want to get some pizza.  After all, my brother and his wife are off doing something tonight.  I'll have to fend for myself. 

I haven't been to the local pizzaria for a long time, and I love their sauce.  The last time I was up here, I ate here at least twice a week.  Taking the ferry over to the mainland, and driving up over the Mackinac bridge, I was thinking of nothing but that pizza.  How did I actually forget it for the past two weeks?  Oh yes.  Deer season.  Waking up at the fucking crack of dawn.  But not tomorrow.  Deer season is over.

There is hardly a soul when I arrive.  The lone waitress attends to me, delivering me the meat heavy pizza that I so crave.  She's probably in her mid forties and doesn't wear a wedding ring.  A few lines on her face attest to her age, but her blonde locks and chipper demeanour mean that she hasn't given up on her beauty yet. 

I eat over half of the pizza in silence, savouring every bite.  I only pause to scan the waitress' figure for signs of imperfection.  She is rather good looking, I reckon.  A one time she was probably a near 10.  She's now a solid 8, maintaining herself while all the other girls got fat and chopped their hair off.

I finish up and get a carry out box, not knowing how I am going to bring it back to my brother's place on my bike in the rain.  There is no way I can stuff another bite into my gut.  The mere thought of pizza almost makes me ill. 

I pay my bill.  On my way out, I notice Tom Robinson tending bar.  This dude was here the first time I came around, about 4 years ago.  I'm curious as to if he'll remember me or not.  He's chatting with the lone waitress, sometimes looking up to watch a muted hockey game on TV. 

"How was everything, man?" he asks. 

"Killer, dude," I answer back. 

I'm about to leave the building when I see a bearded man in a tan suit coat playing Street Fighter II.  It's the only arcade game that this place has, and it's somewhat of a small miracle that the fucking thing still works.  It's been out for nearly 20 years.  Perhaps the owner pays for it to be repaired--there just can't be that much customer demand for a cult, early 90's arcade game. 

The man's obviously quite engrossed in the game: he's pulled up a stool and has several stacks of quarters in front of him.  His fingers slam the buttons from time to time with intensity.  When he loses a round, he swears in a foreign language and plugs in another quarter. 

Something is familiar about this man.  The dark hair.  The scruffy beard.  The suit without tie, and the top button undone on the shirt. 

Who is he?  He's certainly not a Mexican.  He reminds me a bit of an cocaine dealer from Scarface I might see frequenting the most sketchy of discos.  And he can't be some Taliban terrorist...he is dressed far too respectably for that.  And the almost musical quality of his curse words register in my brain: he's not speaking Spanish or Arabic.  It dawns on me with sudden clarity that this man might be Iranian ex-President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad..  What are the odds of that?  Him showing up here, in some podunk town in the UP to play Street Fighter II on a miserable night.

I retreat from the door and walk up to the bar.  "Hey Tom, do you know who that dude is playing Street Fighter?" I ask.

"Yeah, that's Moody," he says, non chalantly. 

"Do you mean Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the former president of Iran?"

Tom shrugs. 

"He really looks like him," I say.

Tom shrugs again.  "Well, yeah...maybe.  I don't know.  Why don't you go ask him?"

I decide to go talk to this guy, curious about his origin.  I've never met a celebrity in my life.  I try to think where I have left my camera.  At least, I can get an autograph from him, if he is in fact Ahmadinejad. 

"Can you give me a guest check and a pen," I ask the waitress. 

The waitress blushes and smiles.  "Here you are, cutie," she smiles.  Her teeth are small, but in perfect condition. 

"Thanks," I mumble, turning away.  I should probably write my number on one of the guest checks like the waitress seems to be hoping.

Half expecting hidden ninjas to jump out as I approach the mystery man, I move slowly towards him.  When I am about seven feet away, I speak up.  Part of me is curious as to if this man is Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the other part is just eager to fuck with some random foreigner.

"Excuse me, but I recognized you from over there.  Could I have your autograph," I say, thrusting the pen and pad of paper towards him.  Granted I would probably like to ask him about nuclear weapons or something like that, and autograph will suffice for now.  No one is going to believe that I met Mahmoud Ahmadinejad in my local pizzaria.  "Please, mister President?"

At first he continues playing Street Fighter.  He's playing as M. Bison, which doesn't surprise me.  He finishes his round, beating Blanka, the mutant from Brazil, turns to me and signs the paper. 

"I'm no president," he says in accented English.  He scribbles something on the pieces of paper and turns back to the game.

"Thanks," I reply.  "Say, you're not from around here.  What brings you to these parts?"

"Pizza.  The other place was too busy, so I just came up here," he answers.

Sure enough, there is a cold, large pizza with two pieces gone sitting next to the arcade game.  I notice that there is no meat on it, just mushrooms and what looks to be spinach. 

"What's your name?" I ask, not knowing how he will answer. 

"Moody," he replies.  He doesn't ask my name, just keeps playing Street Fighter.

"You should really try the Hawaiian pizza, it's absolutely smashing," I tell him.

"I would, but it's got pork on it.  Forbidden, in my culture," he shrugs.  "Say, do you want some dessert?  I've got some baklava here.  My grandma made it."

I'm totally full, but baklava sounds like a good idea.  And why offend this man, who might be the a famous politician?  I take a piece from the Tupperware container he has.  It's crispy and extremely sweet, as all good baklava should be.  But there is a funny flavour to it. 

"Say, what's this strange flavour?  What did you put in this baklava?" I ask, finishing the piece. 

"I didn't put poison in it, you idiot, if that's what you want to hear," he sighs.  "You're probably just tasting the saffron." 

Shrugging my sholders, I watch on as Moody faces off against Dhalsim.  Then against Balrog.  He is actually quite good at Street Fighter II. 

"Would you like something to drink?  Maybe some good Wisconsin beer?" I offer him. 

"Get me Pepsi cola.  No alcohol.  It is forbidden," he says without taking his eyes off of the game. 

I walk towards the bar.  Tom points to me.  "A coke and a beer?" he offers. 

"Make it a coke and an iced tea," I correct him.  I actually do feel like having a beer, though. 

The waitress seems to be looking me over as I wait for Tom to give me the drinks.   

Walking back to Moody, I notice that my legs feel funny.  I feel funny.  Slightly giddy.  My heart seems to be pounding out of my chest. 

I set Moody's coke down next to him.  He's now fighting against Vega, and he's getting his ass kicked.  He loses a round and lets loose a string of what must be curse words.  They sound musical in his language.

My eyes are itching.  I feel slightly paranoid.  My mouth is getting pretty dry too.  I open my box of pizza and eat a slice with fury.  I try to eat slowly, but it just doesn't happen.  There is an overwhelming compulsion to flee and eat.  But I feel put off by the cold rain outside.

"Hey, did you put weed in this baklava?" I ask, realizing what is now going on. 

"Don't worry.  It's organic," he laughs as he begins another round against Vega. 

I watch him lose another round.  "Fucking Spanish fruitcake," Moody mumbles under his breath, and flips off the screen.  He drops in two more quarters, and continues playing. 

"Hey, Moody, can I have some more of that baklava?"

"Sure," he says, motioning towards the Tupperware.  I wolf down another piece.  Weed.  Yes.  That's definitely the secret ingredient.  It's really good baklava. 

Moody loses another round of Street Fighter, his ass kicked soundly by Vega.  He swears loudly, and looks at me.  "That's enough for now.  Would you like some speed?"

"Speed?  What do you mean?" I ask.  Everything is moving in slow motion. 

"The powder.  Snort it.  You want some?" he asks. 

"No thanks," I answer. 

Moody gets up and goes over to the bar.  "Let's give your new girlfriend some baklava," he suggests.  He means the waitress. 

Sliding into a stool at the bar, Moody begins talking to the waitress.  "What's your name?" he asks. 

"Sandy," she smiles. 

"Sandy, like a desert.  Hey Tom, could you please pour a drink for Sandy?"

"You got it, Moody!" Tom says, and begins pouring a gin and tonic. 

"More gin!  And go easy on the ice!" Moody yells, throwing down three five dollar bills.  "Make her the best cocktail of her life!"

"Say," I begin.  "What do you do for a living?"

Moody shrugs his shoulder.  "I lost my job a while ago, so nothing."

Tom pours quite a bit of gin into the glass until it's nearly half full, then a splash of tonic water and several lime slices.  Sandy graciously accepts the drink and sips it slowly.  She winces as the gin hits her lips.  I can only imagine how strong it is.  Just by the smell, it seems that Tom has crushed a field of juniper bushes into the cup.

"Good drink, eh?" Moody laughs.  He then hands her a large piece of baklava. 

"What is it?" Sandy wrinkles her nose.  "Do you eat it?"

Moody rolls his eyes, and turns to me, shaking his head as Sandy looks at each angle of the baklava.  "No, you stuff it between your teats," he laughs, smiling wide. 

"I'm not drunk enough for that," Sandy says.

"You eat it," I offer. 

Sandy eats it in two quick bites.  "This tastes kind of weird.  But it's good.  I'll take another later, if you don't mind."

"I know," replies Moody.  "My granny's cuisine is rich in flavour."

Moody motions for Tom to come over, and they chat in hushed tones.  The enhanced baklava is now kicking in full throttle, causing me to stare at the mirror behind the bar. 

"Be accomodating to your guest!" Moody says, and points at Sandy.  "Young lady, do you need some entertainment?"

Sandy blushes.  "Well, thanks for the compliment!  And yes, I would like some entertainment."

"You," Moody jams a finger in my chest.  "Get to work!"

"So what do you do here?" I ask, dazed. 

"I'm a waitress," Sandy says, drawing out the word waitress. 

"Yeah, I know," I say, chewing on every word.  I try to recover from this stupid gaff, made possible only by the massive amount of THC in my system.  "Well, are you from around here?"

"Nah," she says, swirling a lock of hair around her finger.  "I come from Manistique, but I moved over here a while back.  The money's good in summer.  My kids are still back there with my ex."

"Your ex," I say.  Sounds like potential. 

"Yeah, ex-husband," she says.  "He's cool though.  He won't mind if I have a boyfriend."

I don't like the sound of that word boyfriend.  This chick's on the prowl.  At least she didn't say a man, because that would imply that she wants someone to fix her toilet, build a new deck, and pay her rent.  I have no intention of being either boyfriend or man in Sandy's life, and certainly no intention of moving my ass up here to Saint Ignace.  Luckily, with gas prices at a premium, her parental duties will make a trip out to the island prohibitively expensive for her. 

I down my drink.  "Well, that's good," I say.  "It can't be easy having kids and no dad around.  How many have you got?"

"Two boys, Aiden and Kingsley."

"And how old are they?"

"5 and 8," she gushes.  "They're my little men."

Note to self: don't date chicks that refer to their children as their little men. 

I file that mental note next to the two or three that say the same exact thing.  I must have made those when I was drunk.  Being high makes me a little more aware and careful.  I look Sandy up and down.  She looks like Laura Palmer from Twin Peaks, just 25 years older, and she's got a monster dumper on her.  Banging a chick that looks like a fictional chick I had a crush on from a cancelled, supremely fucked up TV show is something I wouldn't mind ticking off.  All I've got to do is destroy those inhibitions.

"You want something to drink?" I ask Sandy.

Sandy shakes her head.  "No thank you, I'm still nursing this badboy.  But I'll just go to the bathroom and make some room for another.  You just wait right here."

Did she just say that she's going to make room for another?  Is that how she announces she's got to piss?  Wow, this chick's direct. 

"Hey Tom, I changed my mind about the beer.  Make it a Leinie's Red, okay, bud?"  I say.

"You got it, man," Tom says, pulling a glass from beneath the counter.  He sticks it under the tap, tilts it sideways, and with a pull of the lever, fills the glass with amber liquid. 

"This one's on the house," Tom says, handing it over.

I turn just in time to see Moody finish pouring some white powder into Sandy's drink.  My jaw drops.  The gin alone would have been enough to do her in, not to mention Sandy's clearly single and looking status, so whatever date rape concoction is not only a bit poor form, but totally necessary.  Moody just smiles and points at me. 

"Who's going to be a lucky man tonight?" he laughs.  "You are, buddy!" 

"Jesus Christ, Moody," Tom shakes his head.  "I don't even want to know where you got that."

"Don't worry," Moody laughs harder.  "It's organic!"

He gives the drink a brief stir with a tooth pick and presses his index finger to his lips.  "Our little secret, okay?"

Not knowing what else to do, I let Sandy drink her gin and tonic when she comes back.  I'm too stoned to do otherwise. 

I put my arm around Sandy's shoulders, and she melts into me.  She's warm and soft, smelling slightly of gin and cheap perfume.

"So," she says, and takes a sip.  I can see Moody's reflection smiling in the mirror.  "Where are you from?"

"Beaver Island."

"Beaver Island?" she laughs.  "Is that like Pussy Lane?" and with that, erupts into mad gales of laughter.  Tom and Moody join in. 

Sandy keeps flirting with me, leaning on me, and holding my hand.  Normally I'd be embarrased about picking up a 30/40 something year old waitress in a bar in a strange town, but Moody and Tom aren't watching.  Shit, in a few days, I'll head south with a car full of venison, Tom and Sandy will go somewhere, and Moody...well, if he is the Iranian president, I suppose he'll go home.

Sometime towards the end of my beer, Sandy and I lock lips.  Not just lips, but full on tongue action.  It may be the weed or the beer, but it's one of the best kisses I've ever had: eager, but not desperate, with a playful quality betraying Sandy's superior age.

Moody takes this oppurtunity to lay out several lines of white powder on the bar, which I only notice when I hear Tom snort one up through a rolled piece of foreign currency.

"Someone's in a party mood tonight!" Sandy giggles at Tom, and plants her hand not-too-subtly on my crotch.  She rubs my member and looks me in the eye.  "And soon someone else will be, too!"

"Hey, you guys want to join the party?" Tom points the rolled bill at us.  I shake my hand, but Sandy just leans further forward, pressing even harder on my dick, nearly crushing my balls.  I wince in pain.

"We don't need your cocaine!  We get our kicks the natural way!" Sandy laughs.

"But it's totally organic!" Moody says with a grin, and leans down to snort a line.

"So's this!" Sandy says, and pats my crotch. 

"Go make yourself useful, Sandy," Tom begins.  "Go get us a bottle of that Don Julio tequila from the office."

"Aren't you cranky," Sandy says, and get up to walk way.  She nearly falls over as she steps off of her stool.  I have to grab her arm to steady her, and she nearly takes me down with her. 

"I'm okay," Sandy says.  "Just had a long shift."

"Yeah, a long shift..." I say. 

Sandy wanders away, my eyes glued to her ass in her tight blue jeans.  She turns at the door and winks, pointing at her eye.  "I've got my eye on you, loverboy!  You're coming home with mama tonight!"

With that she leaves us alone, and I can turn to Moody for more pressing matters. 

"Moody, can I ask you a personal question?" I begin.

"Do it," he says. 

"Is that your real name?  'Moody?'"

"What else would it be?" he answers with a disgusted look.

"Well, what do you do?  Where do you come from?"

Moody shakes his head and smiles a conspirator's grin.  "Not Saint Ignace, that's for sure."

"Then where?"

"Hey, you guys want some tunes?  I'm going to put some on the jukebox," Tom interrupts us.

"Snoop Dogg," Moody says.  "And Eminem."

Tom wanders off to the jukebox, but Moody turns to me.  His gaze is not the usual manic gaze of a seasoned coke user, but a composed gentleman on a mission.

"Dude, you've got to help me with something.  There's this Ukrainian prostitute living here that stole my secrets.  She also put a magic wand in my jar of peanut butter."

"That's deep," I mumble.  Something must be lost in translation.  "What kind of secrets?"

"Nuclear ones."

"Moody, are you--"

"It doesn't matter who I am, you must understand that.  You must understand this: I have to kick her ass," he explains.  "We have to kick her ass."

"And where is this Ukrainian prostitute?"

"She's off in...hey, Tom, where's that wench?"

"Mackinac City," Tom says, undistracted from picking his tunes. 

"That's across the bridge," I say to Moody.

"So what?" he says.  "We can do it!"

"I'm on a fucking bike.  And it's raining."

"Just throw it in the trunk of my car," Moody says.  "Who gives a shit!  I'm helping to get you laid, bro!"

"I didn't need your help," I try to correct him, but he ignores me. 

"We can keep partying later.  Just do this for me, okay bro?"  Moody's use of bro seems so out of place, so unnatural in his accent, that I have to hold myself back from laughing.

Moody and I are putting on our jackets when Sandy comes out of the bathroom. 

"What's going on, eye candy?" she slurs. 

"We've got to go take care of some business," I say. 

"Business?  What kind of business?"

Moody throws on his coat and a pair of sunglasses.  "Important business," he says cortly. 

"Maybe I can help," Sandy offers, sliding up next to me.

Moody looks her over for a moment.  "Yeah, maybe you can.  Get dressed, and we go now."

Sandy struggles to put her jacket on, but bounds out the door with us with no problems.  Moody's got a big, vintage 80's Cadillac, once the pride of our glorious state.  He peels out of the parking lot of the pizzaria, one side of the car rising noticably as he turns onto the street.  We take a few more turns, Moody ignoring every stop sign, until the bridge shines against the night sky. 

"Onward, ho!" yells Mood and slams the acclerator into the floor.  The front of the car shoots up as a hyrofoil on water, the engine snorting like a hundred disgruntled stallions.  

"Whoa," Sandy says, curls up next to me, and falls asleep. 

Moody cues up Notorious B.I.G. on his MP3 player, and tries his best to sing along with "Somebody Got to Die."  The scene is surreal: a MILF waitress passed out in my lap, some strange Middle Eastern man driving a Caddy, wearing sunglasses and trying to rap along with the Notorious B.I.G.  The THC is running strong in my blood, but the meager amount of alcohol in my system is starting to wear off.  This leaves me wondering if this is really such a good iea.

We get to about the center of the bridge when Sandy starts to stir.  I know what comes next, having myself been a regular consumer of too much alcohol in my younger years. 

"She's gonna puke, dude," I say to Moody. 

"Well, don't let her do it in the car!  Roll down the window!" he barks over the rap. 

I help Sandy get to the window just in time.  She opens the window and leans her head out as a gust of chilly wind off of Lake Huron catches her hair, sending it in all different directions.  The blasting wind and rap music drown out all sounds except the waterly sloshing that rushes against the side of the car, but the sheer force of the gusts cannot purge the acrid scent of half digested food and gin from the car. 

Sandy hurls two more times, then turns back into the car.  The ends of her blonde hair are streaked dark with vomit.  The smell rolls off of her in a disgusting wave. 

"Felling much better now, I reckon," she says in a way that is more rural Indiana that Upper Peninsula, and crashes out again. 

Moody opens up the glove box and trows a metal container back at me.  I pick it up to see that it's a can of Axe body spray.   "Spray her down, Texas style," he instructs me.

I do as I'm told, as disgusted as I may be, and without the benefit of being engrossed in the rap music that plays. 

"Dude, you've got puke all down the side of your car," I say. 

"It's not my car," Moody says with wave of his hand.

Next up comes "Hypnotized," which Moody knows a little better than "Somebody Got to Die," but still not well enough to win a rap battle. 

As we pass the part where the bridge joins land, I think about what a seriously strange left turn the evening has taken.  I had just intended on getting a pizza and going back for a pleasant night of sleep, not hanging out with some weird guy who bears an uncanny resemblence to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who would then drug a MILF waitress, use cocaine and insist that I help him kick the ass of a Ukrainian prostitute.  On that note, what the fuck is a Ukrainian prostitute doing in Michigan, in November?  Well, what is Moody doing here?

I'm absolutely positive that I'm breaking a shitload of laws, but how much of an accomplice I am is debatable.  I could always say that Moody gave me laced baklava, and hope that the NSA or whoever would just bust his ass. 

We turn off before we reach the center of Mackinac city, and drive down a deserted backroad.  Trees grow in thick around us, creating a ghastly cave of dead branches that frame the road.  Moody floors it down this road as well, before he kills the headlights and pulls the car into a random driveway.  He shuts the engine off, and silence strangles the air.  As soon as my senses become accustomed to the stillness, I can make out Sandy's light snoring and the pitter patter of the abated rain on the Caddy's roof.

"There's a house up there.  Just go in the side door.  You'll know what to do," Moody explains, pointing up ahead.

I can see the house.  There's a street light on outside.  And there are plenty of lights on inside of the house.   

"This is a fucking stupid idea.  Whoever is there is going to see us," I say. 

"No, it is perfect plan!  It is a gangsta plan!" Moody laughs. 

I get out of the car and Moody waves me on. 

I get about halfway to the house before a gust blows the accumulated rain off the branches, instantly soaking me.  Then it starts to rain hard again.  I'm cold.  My teeth chatter and my limbs feel like cold putty.  At least maybe with the sound of the rain, no one will hear me coming.  And what am I supposed to do, anyway?  I simply sneak up to the side door, imagining that invisible enemies are watching my every move, which isn't a hard thing, given the amount of THC in my veins.

A television is playing at high volume in the house.  Someone is watching Dateline by the sound of it.  The smell of fried fish oozes out from behind the door.  My hand hovers over the doorknob thinking one single though over and over again.

This is fucking stupid.

The door enters directly to the kitchen.  It's trashed.  There are Bud Light cans everywhere.  A cold bar of bluish florescent illuminates dirty dishes overflowing from the sink.  They are covered in layers of dried food and gelatinous pools of hardening ketchup.  The scent of mold and warm garbage eclipse the odour of fried fish, but just barely.  Some moron has apparently decided that the temperature of the house should be thermonuclear so that the resident bacteria can multiply with savage impunity. 

I push open a door to the side of the kitchen to make sure that no one is hiding there.  It is a bathroom, barely big enough for a single human.  There are a myriad of bottles of expensive perfumes and hair products.  A curling iron sits on the floor, still plugged in and glowing hot.  For some strange reason, I peer into the toilet.  It is graciously covered in filth--nasty wide swaths of brown, as if they were painted by the careless hand of a 5 year old with thick paint brush.  They swirl in the direction that the water flowed the last time it was evacuated.  I try to reconcile this with the fact that this is clearly a girly-girl's bathroom, and am utterly puzzled how a female could produce such foulness.

The television continues to blast from another room.  I duck out of the bathroom, my movements jerky with the paranoia brought on by Moody's fortified baklava.  I walk towards the noise, being careful to not be spotted.  I catch a glance on the TV of some paedophile sitting at a table, eating a cookie, before Chris Hansen walks in and breaks the bad news to him.  This makes me very paranoid about my current situation, as if I've somehow wandered into one of these shows.

But there is no Chris Hansen here, just a lone figure on the couch.

The reclining figure faces away from me, a nearly amorphous lump heaped in blankets, and thankfully passed out.  She gives off three snores so loud that they drown out the television.  A perfect pyramid of Bud Light cans sits on the coffee table in front of her.  There are egg shells on a dirty plate, and scattered across the table, and an overflowing ashtray.  The room reeks of sulphur, methane, and the lingering smoke of Marlboro Lights, the diet of this denizen.   

The woman snores again and rolls over, her blanket falling on the floor.  Her hair reaches her shoulders, and mostly covers the pudgy features of her face.  I can tell she's a natural strawberry blonde, because she's got about an inch of roots showing, but it's anyone's guess what colour she had dyed her hair several months back; it's a rusty red colour, but has faded as the cheap dark dye she had used obstinately dies a humiliating death.  A wedge of her gut oozes out of her gaudy sweater.  She wears a short jean skirt, which is nearly around her knees.  Two immense buttocks nearly swallow some fabric that could probably be underwear.  She farts loudly, spewing a jet of methane ballistically, like Jupiter's moon Io, that quickly dissipates into the room. 

"What the fuck is this?" I whisper to myself.  As the smell hits my nose, aggravated by the high temperature of the room, I vomit all over the floor.

Taking this as a cue, Moody suddenly rushes into the room from behind me.  I see him barge in through the door, kicking it with a hatred characteristic only of those having suffered great injustice.  Throwing caution to the wind, I hit the ground when I see the sledgehammer in his hands. 

"Die, infidels!" he screams. 

Oh fuck, he's going to kill her.

Luckily, he doesn't.  I feel a swoosh of air above me as Moody swings the sledgehammer into the television.  A hail of sparks and broken glass shoot out across the room, some of it landing on my exposed neck. 

"What are you doing?" I demand, getting up.  Undeterred, Moody proceeds to smash the television with two more blows with the sledge hammer, then kick the empty shell to the floor. 

"We must stop the infidels!" he yells.

Two girls appear from another room.  They're clad in their pajamas and their mouths are agape.  They're both skinny, and look malnourished in way that suggests either a bad diet of fast food and cigarettes or mild anorexia.  Perhaps both.  One has light greenish hair that contrasts with her dark eyes, whereas the other has some black hair with serious bangs.  I feel like I'm looking at a cheap cyborg concubines from a miserable future.

"Mahmoud Ahmadinejad!" they cry in unison. 

"FUCK YOU!" yells Moody, and grabs the plate of egg shells.  With amazing speed, he flings it at the girls, but it hits the wall next to them.  They squeal.  Brandishing the sledge hammer, Moody chases them into the bathroom with the shit stained toilet, and shuts the door. 

The fat girl on the couch rolls over, looking at me bleary eyed.  She says something, maybe in whatever language she speaks, but it could all be jibberish.  I'm sure she's wondering where Chris Hansen has gone. 

"I paid the rent!" she says, at last, to me.  "What do you want?"

I look around, looking for Moody, who has vanished. 

"Do you want a beer?" she says feebly, but seemingly unscathed by the violence erupting.

"It's the Ukrainian prostitute!" Moody yells from the kitchen.  He barges in, navigating my bike through the doorway and mess.  "Hit her with this!"

"My bike?"

"Do it!" Moody yells.  The girl on the couch shrinks back into the cushions, and wrinkles her brow. 

"DO IT!" 

"What the fuck, dude?" I say.  It's really all I can say. 

Before the woman can get up from the couch, Moody lifts the bike over his head, and brings it crashing down onto her.  She lies motionless on the couch. 

"DEATH TO UKRAINIAN PROSTITUTES!" Moody cheers, slapping me on the back.  He offers me a high five, which I unenthusiastically return. 

"You're a good one," Moody says, sitting down on the couch next to the motionless "Ukrainian prostitute."  He lays out a small pile of coke and snorts it.  "This is a glorious day!"

"Oh my goodness, what's going on here?" cries an effeminate voice behind me.  I look up to see another dark skinned man, this one clad in tight black jeans and a tight pink t-shirt.  His face is immaculately bereft of facial hair, and his nails are manicured. 

"Go to hell, you Turkish faggot!" Moody yells, and jumps up from the couch, clearing the coffee table.  He lands on one foot, but then propels himself off and punches the effeminate man in the face.  The effemminate man stands for a brief moment, then crumples the ground like a wet rag.   

I stand motionless in the center of the room.  I can hear the two girls crying softly in the bathroom.  Moody is panting, bracing himself against the wall with one hand.  He reaches down and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the unconscious man's shirt.  Kools, I can tell by the pack.  He lights a cigarette and keeps looking down. 

The girls open the bathroom door and run back into the room, taking the silence as a sign that we've departed.  They dart right past us and fall to the ground next to the unconscious woman on the couch. 

"No, don't die, mommy," they sob, caressing her hair.  The fat woman gives off a loud snore in reply, then another fart, but this offers no apparent comfort to the girls. 

The Turkish dude lays bleeding on the floor.  Moody takes a deep drag on the cigarette and stares down at him.  He's breathing heavily.  One of the girls looks back at him with a firghtened glance, and he responds by pointing directly at her and staring above an awkward grin.

I take in the sight, the sounds, and the smells for a moment.  My brain can't make sense of it.  Pieces of television, egg shells, beer cans, and cigarette butts lie everywhere.  A strange bouquet of fried fish, garbage, burnt plastic, and methane fills the air.  A smoke detector finally starts going off.  No one heeds it any attention. 

Finally breaking out of my trance, I pick up my bike and walk into the kitchen.  Moody follows me, and starts looking for something.

"One minute," he says holding up a hand.  He finds a shoe box full of make up, paws through it, and dumps the contents into the garbage can.  Then he takes the empty shoe box over to the refridgerator and opens the door. 

"What the hell is going on?" I ask.  "Who are these people?"

Moody pulls items out of the refridgerator.  Most things he just throws on the floor, but he puts a few items carefully into the shoe box.  Barbecue sauce.  Butter.  Mayonnaise.  For some reason he spares these from the floor. 

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask. 

Moody pulls out a mostly full gallon jug of milk.  He opens the lid, smells it, then takes a few healthy chugs off it.  He flings the still mostly full jug over his shoulder and continues raiding the fridge.  The jug lands with a pathetic thud, and lets off a light chug-chug as it empties its contents on the floor. 

He pulls several more items from the fridge and puts them in the shoe box.  Peanut butter.  Broccoli.  Newman's Own Family Recipie Italian dressing.  With this last item he pauses, and admires it. 

"This is the best salad dressing ever.  I think I'll make a salad when I get home," he says as he lovingly puts it into the shoe box.  Several more items follow.  Horse radish.  A pineapple.  Activia yogurt. 

When he's done, Ahmadinejad steps over the mountain of discarded food items on the floor, through the puddle of milk, and walks out the back door.  He stops breifly, turns around, and grabs a set of keys from the counter top.

"What now?" I call out after him, hauling my bike ou the back door.

Moody walks up to one of the cars in the driveway, a new, green Ford Focus.  He opens the door and puts the shoebox in the back.  He hops in the front seat, moving it back a few inches to allow ample leg room.  Moody slips on a pair of black leather gloves and his sunglasses before adjusting the rearview mirror.  He corrects his hair and puts the key in the ignition.  He turns the key and the car comes to life with a calm purr.

"What now?" I ask again. 

Almost as if breaking out of a trance, he shakes his head.  Rifling around in his pocket, he pulls out a set of keys and throws them at me. 

"Why don't you take the Caddy and meet me back at the pizzaria in about half an hour?" he suggests.  "I've got to go take care of some business with Alex."

Who the fuck is Alex? I want to ask, but in comparison with all the other weird shit that's happened tonight, Alex is the most inconsequential of all the things that surround Moody.

"Moody," I say.  "Is your name Mahmood Ahmadinejad?"

Moody raises a finger, and turns his attention to his MP3 player.  "My Name is Mud!" he says, as the Primus song comes on, blaring out of the speakers. 

Moody slams the car door.  I can see him in the glow of the dashboard lights, familiarizing himself with the controls of his newly acquired vehicle.  When this is done, he throws it in gear.  Gravel spits out angrily as he swings the car around, and heads towards the road.  The tires of the Ford scream when they hit the pavement, like the world's biggest chihuahua being pinched.  The four cylinder engine howls as Moody stomps the pedal to the floor.

I watch the headlights fade off into the night.  I glance back at the house.  The lights are on, but I can't see anything happening.  I figure there's only a chance that they'll call the cops, if one of them is actually a prostitute.  Regardless, I have no further reason to stay here. 

Back at the Cadillac, Sandy is still passed out in the back seat, breathing deeply.  She looks comfortable enough.

I drive back towards Saint Ignace, crossing the bridge in silence.  There's no way I'm going back to the pizzaria and deal with more of this Moody guy's antics, so I drive the Cadillac into a field a couple of miles up the road from my brother's place, out in the countryside.  From there, I can ride my bike back to my brother's place.  Moody's genius plan to throw it at a fat chick has caused negligible damage to it.  The Iron Horse will ride again.

As I look back and see Sandy sleeping in the back seat, I decide to lock the keys in the car.  She won't know where she is in the morning, but she'll be safe.  It's all the apology I can muster for being less than a gentleman tonight.