Dinner With The Mafia. Armando Lazzari

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      Judging by the long line of people waiting in front of the entrance, the event of the evening seemed to have attracted a lot of interest.

      Susan gave off an almost tangibly exhilarated air, which contrasted with Ben's dark suspicion, as he kept looking around for something to reassure him. But the more he searched, the more his anxiety increased.

      He figured that at least fifteen people, between those in front and those at the end of the line, could have very well spent the last two or three years behind bars. Not to mention their clothing, that appeared tenebrously sinister and bordered on something close to satanic. He found the courage to ask a question that might help him understand his surroundings a bit more.

      “Susan, sorry but, what exactly are we going to see tonight?”

      She looked at him like he had come from another planet. “What do you mean? Everybody knows Zoroaster from Atlanta!” Ignorance surrounded him, clearly revealed in his face.

      “You really don't know who they are? I mean, don't you like Sludge Metal?”

      He attempted a vague answer while clearing his voice, but Susan saw right through his posturing.

      “I get it. You don't know and you need me to explain, right?” Despite his embarrassment, Ben had to confess that he had no idea what she was talking about.

      “Sludge Metal, or rather, Sludge Doom Metal is a sub-genre of Heavy Metal music that's usually considered a fusion of Doom Metal, Stoner Metal, Southern Rock and Hardcore Punk.” She waited for Ben to wrap his head around all of it, then decided to change her tactic. “Don't worry. Let's do this, we'll listen to a few songs and if you can't stand it, just tell me and we'll go somewhere else. Does that sound all right?”

      The skies cleared, the sun came out and Ben immediately felt better. He happily accepted Susan's offer, even if he would have rather been standing in line to see Shakira.

      Inside the club, the music was a detonation that filled every corner, embellished by various strobe lights rotating wildly, shooting in every direction.

      Everyone was moshing to heavily distorted bass sounds and rivers of oppressive riffs which appeared to try its best to smother the writhing mass of Metalheads. Ben felt like he was at the center of a spinning universe that was breaking apart with every violent beat of the drums, jolted right and left while the sea of people slam danced and shouted guttural hardcore punk language. He struggled to understand what Susan was trying to yell in his ear.

      “Oh my God! This is the Ancient Ones from the Matador album.”

      He nodded and gave a hint of a smile, hoping that this torture would soon be over. The only way he was able to stand the nightmare, was because it looked like Susan was having fun.

      The worst came when the crowd slammed into him and he felt something soggy and slimy spread all over his forearm. He instinctively pulled his arm back, but was only partly able to, because another wave of pushing shoved him in total contact with the “thing”. His whole arm, including his hand, felt like it was covered in a mix of sweaty and oily gelatin that smelled like a toilet at a service station.

      Totally revolted, he found the courage to turn around and actually look at the horror that he had come in contact with.

      Pushing him from behind, was the belly, soft and deformed by alcohol, which belonged to a guy wearing a muscle shirt that was two sizes too small for his immense body, only covering his chest and part of his gigantic gut.

      The man, heavily made-up with black eyeliner, wore a Marlon Brando cap, dozens of earrings and studded necklaces that served as an introduction to his collection of esoteric tattoos. From the shine of his skin, it was evident that he had slathered himself in some kind of oil.

      Ben gagged and knew he had to get out of there, or he would vomit.

      Trying to look casual, he surreptitiously cleaned his arm on the shirt of the unfortunate person standing next to him, then grabbed Susan by the waist and quickly tried to escort her away from the herd. She interpreted his attempt at escape as trying to feel at home, so she decided to accommodate him by yelling a request in his ear.

      “Can I climb up on your shoulders?”

      Ben didn't hear a word, but out of kindness, answered with a smile that said yes. He only figured out what she meant after she had climbed on his back, digging her heels into his ribs. He did his best to keep his balance, counting on the crowd surrounding him to keep him from falling over.

      Then suddenly Susan jerked around. A guy standing right behind her put his whole hand on one half of her ass, his eyes fixed on the stage while he sipped his beer with the other hand.

      That's when Susan lost it. “Hey, you creepy pig! Get your filthy hand off me!” But he just stood there with his hand firmly in place, squeezing her butt and sipping his beer.

      “Are you an idiot, or what? Take your hands off me!” Furious, she lashed out, but as soon as she came close to his hand, he moved it, then put it right back on her ass.

      Worn out, she smacked Ben in the head to get his attention. “Aren't you going to say anything to this jerk?”

      When Ben realized what was going on, he turned around to face the cause of trouble. “Hey buddy, go molest somebody else!” The guy let out a resounding and sour burp that hit Ben and everyone around him.

      Susan, more than pissed off, gave a swift kick in the face to the perpetrator. In his attempt to protect his head from the blow, he spilled most of his beer on the couple standing next to him. The beer-drenched guy wasn't particularly tall, but was ripped from hours lifting weights at the gym and he wasn't at all happy about being doused. He grabbed the culprit by the front of his t-shirt and started shaking him like a rag doll. “What the fuck! You ruined my clothes, you moron!”

      Like some kind of crazed idiot, the ass-grabber started laughing uncontrollably, enraging the weightlifter with every chuckle. “If you don't shut up, I'm gonna break your face! Then we'll see if you're still laughing.”

      Behind him, a guy, dressed in yellow from head to toe, tried to intervene in defense of the idiot. “C'mon, leave him alone. Can't you see there's something wrong with him?”

      The bully didn't appreciate Mr. Yellow's intrusion and decided to show him who was СКАЧАТЬ