Breakfast in Amsterdam
Is there a creature on Earth more idle than the Amsterdam police officer? Would a South American three-toed sloth look "frisky" in comparison? There seem to be very few enforceable laws on the books in Holland, and the ones actually written down apparently need be continually and loudly broken in order to have any chance at nudging a droopy-eyed, Dutch flatfoot to lift his limp, rubbery head long enough to mutter, "Better cut it out" before the seldom used neck muscles give way and send that sagging, milky white kisser crashing back down onto his empty Day Planner.
The extent of laxity in the Netherlands' ordinances became most apparent on the day leading into New Year's Eve when, at every turn, teetering trucks stuffed plump with explosives could be seen making deliveries to almost every address in the city. Crates of armaments passed from man to man, down a line and onto piles of more crates. Bulging wooden barrels, spilling trails of black powder, lumbered along dark alleys, pushed by children smoking cigarettes. Anvil cases ominously marked with skull and crossbones slipped into back doors courtesy of guileful miscreants with handlebar mustaches and crooked spines twisted from a lifetime of slinking. The stage was being set for one ferocious and volcanic night of raging havoc and I would not have been surprised to see tanks rolling down the Damrak, headed by some Hitler youth commander, hollering about kicking anyone in the nuts who looked at him sideways.
I nestled into Gabrielle's olive neck and nudged her rear bumper while holding her belly, as she studied her face in the mirror and attempted to hide, with make-up and tincture, the fat lip I had accidentally given her the night before.
"How does it look?" she asked, striking a casual facial pose.
"Hardly noticeable," I lied.
"Bullshit. It's big enough to have its own nipple." She handed me her coffee cup. "Will you fill this up for me, please?"
"I can't believe you're drinking this stuff."
"Well, it's not great but it's coffee and it's available."
"Yeah, but this machine is a fixture in this hotel room. How do you know the guy last week didn't use it to brew his own piss? Cream and sugar?"
She scrunched up her face at me in the mirror. "Ugh. Fine, dump it. God, I got boiled to the onions on that swill you were dishing out last night. You didn't take advantage of me, did you?"
I stretched out on the bed. "I'm afraid so, m'lady."
"Must have been great. I can't remember a thing. You didn't do anything 'sans the bag', right?"
"Sans the Bag?" I said. "Wasn't he a Middle Eastern comic in the '50s?"
She turned and pointed her ballooning, bulbous lower lip at me. "I mean it. You didn't slip me the raw one, did you?"
I shook my head. "Safely tucked in a childproof pouch, m'dear."
"Hmmm," she hmmmed, turning back to the mirror to fiddle with her new appendage. "Look at this damn thing. Looks like I have a beet hanging outta my mouth. What am I going to do about this?"
"Well," I offered, "whenever I'm desperate, I pray to St. Julio, patron saint of chicken chalupas."
"Yeah, that's helpful. Thanks. Listen, get on the blower and tell TJ we're running late. I'm gonna lance this son of a bitch right now."
Copyright 2000 John Bizarre
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