Crazy night in Dullsville part VIII
June 21st 2010 08:23
Part eight: Peter Nattrass
Roy was suitably trashed at this point and the drug and alcohol fuelled binge had reignited his inner jungle warrior, which had been bursting to come out in this placid environment, better known as Perthetic.
Roy, Bob, Ray, Jesus and his couple of lady friends, and I try to find a suitable bar to continue our decadent night.
But Roy of course has other ideas. He stops a group of young girls, hanging outside a bar. “Wanna come to a party? There is a big house party down Lake Street,” he manically says but to no avail. This is of course is Perth, possibly the most pretentious and clicky place in the globe.
We wander off down the thriving metropolis street. Actually no, it’s pretty seedy. And not in a good way, like in Amsterdam or Asia.
No this place is full of feral beings and sluts, which pretty much sums up this dingy hole.
I don’t know if it’s the acid or the booze, but Roy is moving fast and is soon headed for the titty bar, where he avoids the queue and enters.
I catch up to him but he is arguing with a meathead bouncer.
“I’m here to see Jane, get her out here,” he shouts.
Funnily enough “Jane” appears, whispers something in Roy’s ear and he is off.
“What just happened?” I ask
“Fuck lines man. I’ve never understood why people wait in lines,” he says, already showing signs of disrepair.
We catch up to the others, who are sauntering ahead possibly because they are stoned.
We enter the Moon Café – a late night café, full of freaks and late-night weirdos. At least there appears to be no cashed up cunts around.
“This place is cool man, it’s like Total Recall,” Ray observes.
He’s right but unfortunately I don’t see any three titted ladies around.
Immediately upon sitting, we order beer and wine, a fatal combination, but oh well.
Roy is cutting loose and has totally degenerated, while the drugs are playing weird tricks on his brain.
“Tell me as a mate, do you think the acid is taking effect? Because I don’t,” he slurs.
My brain has floated to the clouds and time has rendered itself useless and doesn’t exist in my newfound drug-addled world.
I’m shaken back into reality, as a French alternative sitting besides me babbles on about milking cows but my attention shifts back to the mad man Roy, who is engaged in a lively discussion with Bob.
“Peter Nattrass ruined this city, he fucked up all the artists in this town,” he shouts at Bob.
“Calm down dude. What are you going to do about it?”
Roy stands up and shouts: “Peter Nattrass, I’m going to nail his arse to the fuckin floor. I run this fucking town.”
Fair enough. He has a point there but I don’t think anyone else at the café does, judging by the bewildered faces all around.
For such a structured town, surprising there doesn’t appear to be a security officer in sight. I sure do feel like I’m on another planet.
Roy still standing drops his beer glass, prompting the poor young waitress to grab our jugs of beer away.
But it’s too late. Roy is anarchic and nobody can stop him now. He’s Tony Montana or Joe Pecsi in Goodfellas, a loose cannon ready to explode. And I, like Ray Liotta, am merely a spectator.
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