Dear Dionysus XXXVI: Beansprout Dracula

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Dear Dionysus XXXVI: Beansprout Dracula

Dear Dionysus,

I don’t want you getting the impression that the only women we interacted with over there were prostitutes. That wasn’t the case at all. After a week or so of trying and failing to have any sort of meaningful interaction with German girls (solely for Franky’s benefit of course), we started to have a bit more luck.

Our luck started with kabob.

You see, Dionysus, we would stay out to all hours of the night drinking, and we’d inevitably get hungry, except the only spots open that late were kabob stands. They were like the German equivalent of Del Taco, except a little less accommodating to a vegetarian of my convictions. I didn’t touch meat then, mate, which meant that I usually A) sucked it up and went hungry or B) drank more beer because, after all, beer was food, really.

One night we were hanging around one of these kabob stands, and were already a little tipsy. Franky and Yorick were devouring their Döner which, despite it’s revolting appearance, was rather appetizing– according to them at least. We had been bar-hopping, although none of the bars were very interesting and we didn’t stay at any longer than a drink or two. We had no idea where we were going to spend the remainder of the night.

Half drunk, aimless, and loitering in front of questionable establishments: a great portion of the more interesting things that have happened to me started off in just this fashion, Dionysus.

Now, back then, I used to wear a lot of pins. They were like little punk rock street cred badges* that hipped the rest of the world to what my record collection** looked like at the time. They also served as a sort of litmus test for potential punks that weeded out the poseurs: if I saw a punky looking kid and they remarked upon one of the bands I was sporting, we were probably gonna get along just fine. If not, well, they were probably just a poseur trout anyways, man.

So we were at this kabob stand when these punk kids showed up. There were three of them: a dude and two chicks, one of which was sporting a Hot Water Music pin. She was attractive in an edgy, broken toy kind of way and, I figured, a perfect candidate for the “Franky’s Devirginizing Elections.” I decided to talk to her–for Franky’s sake, of course.

“You like Hot Water Music? I’m from the same place as them.”

Yes, Dionysus: I, an Orange County expatriate who had recently decided that he was actually ein Berliner, was from the same place as the band from Gainesville, Florida. America is America is America, right?

As it turns out, these three kids were fascinated by my “proximity” to a lot of their favorite American bands and (dare I say it) impressed with my knowledge of all things punk rock.*** Thus, they invited us to tag along to a “punk rock party” that they were headed to that night.

Hitherto that moment, the most punk rock party I had ever attended was that charming soirée in the abandoned house that ended with a post-vomit makeout session with Beretta. You remember, don’t you, Dionysus? Of course you do. My point is that I had no idea what to expect here. What the fuck is a “punk rock party” anyways?

We ended up in a warehouse somewhere in Charlottenberg. Once I got inside, I have to admit that it didn’t seem very punk to me. Sure, there was lots of beer and some funny haircuts (which are pretty punk), but there was also really cheesy euro techno accompanied by strobe lights (not very punk.) The most punk rock thing in the entire joint was probably the foosball table, which we naturally gravitated towards.

Things got weird pretty quickly, Dionysus. Firstly, we were all pretty drunk already, which can cause one’s grasp on reality to get a little shaky (especially mine). Allow me to illustrate what I mean.

What I Saw: A muscular and hairy man sporting a beard and pony tail playing foosball.
What I Really Fucking Saw: A god damn werewolf (Eurowolf) that was going to tear open our throats and satiate his old European bloodlust on our young American blood just like in that one scene in Blade.

What I Saw: Strobe lights.
What I Really Fucking Saw: Alien death rays.

I hadn’t even done psychedelics at this point in my career either, Dionysus. There was just something strange, something nefarious about the whole setup that caused my imagination to run away with itself.

And that’s about the time Beansprout Dracula showed up.

You ever hear a techno remix of Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made For Walking,” Dionysus? I have, and I’m still recovering from it. Anyways, that song was playing, and this real lanky, sickly looking kid was jerking and twitching across the dance floor. He was so god damn pale that the strobe lights were going through him, Dionysus.

Maybe it was the booze or maybe it was the strobe lights, but I decided right then and there that the kid was a vamp and that this “punk rock party” was actually a monster mash with American on the menu.

Before I continue, I would like to remind you that, contrary to what you may be thinking, I really hadn’t dabbled in any psychoactive drugs at that time– although there is the off chance that the falafel I had that evening could have been laced.

From across the room, I could see Beanspout Dracula doing his anaemic square dance slowly but surely towards Franky, who had somehow split up from me and Yorick.

Oh my god, I thought. Franky is fucked.

But alas, I was too concerned with my own pretty little neck to budge, so I stood there frozen and wide-eyed. Beansprout was right in front of Franky now and they were talking. I could feel the discomfort emanating off poor Franky from across the room, and Yorick must have noticed it too.

“What do you think that guy wants with Franky?” he asked.

“Ancient and terrible powers, man. Evil.” I replied.

“I think he’s hitting on him.”

Alas, poor Yorick! That may be what you were seeing, but what I was seeing, what I was really fucking seeing, was far, far more frightening than any unwanted homosexual pass could ever be.

“He’s handing him something! Oh my god, it’s worse than I imagined! He’s asked him to join his coven! We’ve got to get out of here!” I felt my blood drain as Franky received the cruel mystery device from Beansprout Dracula’s hand and walked over to us. I would have sought refuge under the foosball table, only I was equally terrified of Eurowolf, who was still spinning the knobs and howling at the strobe lights (which were really alien death rays).

I was trapped.

“What did that guy want?” Yorick asked.

Franky smiled. “He said he was crossing the border later and couldn’t take this with him, so he asked me if I wanted it.”

He held out his hand. In it was a very large ziplock bag containing the shittiest swag weed I had ever seen and would ever see afterwards. Apparently, Vampires are into really lousy drugs, Dionysus.

“Oh my god, Franky. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” I asked.

“I think that guy has a crush on you, Franky.” Yorick laughed.

“What are you guys talking about?” Franky looked back over his shoulder at Beansprout Dracula, who was preoccupied tearing up the dance floor. Not too preoccupied, however, to shoot Franky a very noticeable and revealing wink.

Yorick laughed; I panicked.

“We’ve got to get the fuck out of here!” I pleaded, grabbing Yorick and Franky with one hand each. “Werewolves and vampires ain’t punk!”****

Franky finally snapped out of it. “We’ve got to get the fuck out of here! That guy wants to fuck me!”

Yorick was still laughing. “We’ve got to get the fuck out of here! This fucking music sucks!”

We ran all the way back to my aunt’s house, Dionysus, and by the time we got there, we couldn’t tell whether we were out of breath from the running or the laughter.

In hindsight, it’s irrelevant really.

</3 Sir Rateval Hurtlinge

P.S. It was only after the fact that Yorick and I realized that we had blown a perfectly good opportunity for getting Franky laid.

*Punk points +1
**Punk points +1000 for my collection at the time; punk points -1000000000 for selling them for money to buy drugs later on
***Punk points +/- ?
****Actually, werewolves and vampires are pretty fucking punk, Dionysus.

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5 responses »

  1. “Werewolves and vampires ain’t punk”
    ….
    “Actually, werewolves and vampires are pretty fucking punk, Dionysus.”

    Oh thank god. Careful what you say to Dionysus. I urge you to remember that despite what the Tuna protestors will have you believe there are still plenty of dolphins in this world and we don’t need magical gay god powers coming to add anymore.

    Actually, how punk is turning a pirate into a dolphin?

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