Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [56]
I joined the little party in the corner rolling hash joints. Probably game planning where to hide their camcorder. Let ’em wet dream all they wanted. I’d grab it on my way out. As well as their wallets, cell phones, credit cards, passports, and airline tickets. I passed the poisoned brew to the high baller on my left. Still didn’t know their names. Didn’t want to.
Suck guzzling half the can, the wonderfully hunky idiot burps proudly and raises the beer in a toast in my direction. I wink, blow a kiss, and purr, “Good little donkey … gobble gobble,” while the mark does as expected and finishes off the can. A witchy giggle tickles my throat. I get giddy when someone is about to shit their pants.
“Music!” asshole number two insists. “We need some tunage!”
“I’m on it, soldier,” his nutty buddy mutters, taking a deep drag on the soggy joint. “Bro, this shit is silk.”
Now I wanted to puke. Turkish tobacco mixed with a bullet of black hash which still stinks of the mule’s ass that smuggled it in. The moronic tub thumping of watered-down West Coast gangsta rap bleeding out of crappy portable speakers. The juvenile camaraderie. Their good looks. Perfect teeth. Their sense of entitlement so indicative of a generation bred to measure merit in net worth, success with fame, importance by how many like-minded dimwits have visited their shitty web page. Their fratboy sexuality and everything they stand for is about to fall. Another beautiful victim of gastrointestinal poisoning.
Two minutes and thirty seconds later an outrageously harmonic eruption of wet sulfuric gases explodes from the rear of the stoner to my right who’s frantically yanking on his belt buckle near the entrance to the bathroom. He clutches the door knob in one meaty fist but lacks the strength to pull it open. “Man, was that joint laced? I think I’m melting.” His legs give out. I laugh out loud. Another soul-shattering anal skronk. A wet greasy stain spreads across his backside. Shit. That was quick!
“Christ! Take it in the shitter, dude, you’re making me sick,” heckles his compassionate traveling companion. No sooner said and he’s also done in by a violent spasm which suddenly doubles him over in what appears to be a one-man football huddle. Hands on knees, head bent down. Choking, spitting, drooling. “What the fuck? I told you we shouldn’t drink the water …” He doesn’t get it but I’m cackling like a madman. His head thrashes from side to side. Explosions of yellow and green bile spraying from his mouth and nose, soaking the bedspread and mattress. A Jackson Pollock rendered in puke.
“Fat joint,” I snicker. “Never touch the shit myself, the smell alone makes me sick.”
He continues to retch.
I reach for the hidden camera which they had strategically placed on top of the old chifforobe angled in the corner. It’s petite red eye aglow. Unwavering. I zoom in for an extreme close-up of the beautiful wreck’s puckering maw, capturing every intoxicating minute of his award-winning regurgitation. I’m a bloodhound in heat, the camera my snout. I follow the chartreuse trail as it cascades over the side of the bed and mingles with the toxic brown effluvium of his ailing twin, who’s crawled out of his dirty drawers and into the sanctuary of the bathtub turned toilet. A shroud of steam haloes his gorgeous grimace. I tower above the ruined puppy, a psychotic paparazzo, focus trained