“I belong here.”

I was very, very drunk, Oh my brothers. My head was awash in the kind of murky blackness one might see in a very ancient glacial lake in northern New York. The kind of blackness in which mischievous thoughts move with impunity, hidden from reason.

OK, so we’re sitting in a dank, dark strip club ironically named “Goddess” — I say ironically because when I think of a goddess I think of Artemis, Freya, Athena, Selma Hayek, not a room full of crack-addict-thin or more than pleasantly plump girls begging for attention, or more directly the couple-dollars that their attention costs.

The decor of the bar puts one in mind of an old Spaghetti Western, or the “fucked up” bar in the Mos Eisley Cantina, dappled with neon lights and obnoxiously red wall-to-wall carpetting. By “we,” of course I mean myself, that is your humble and oh-so-inebriated Narrator, and my companions, that is The Ulti-Mate, FinalCylon and PsychoLarry, sans his Black Glove. PL and I were in Baltimore representing the much-storied staff of Blurred Productions, covering the Baltimore Comic-Con.

How did we come to be in this den of sin?

Well the evening began, ordinarily enough for this motley crew of alcoholics, in the bar of the Marriot next door, where we were staying. We had begun the evening under the suggestion of our illustrious ediotor-in-chief with a giraffe of Swiller Lite (TM). Now a giraffe — for those of you who may not be aware — is 120 oz. of beer in a PVC tube attacked to a base with a tap. I figure out of a giraffe, our entire gang who was partaking probably drank about two beers. But of course, this rather garish display of opulence and tolerance to sweet, sweet booze — although I decline to include Swiller in that category — did not end with one giraffe. We ordered five, and each of us also  had at least a few glasses of hard liquor along with it. So, we were a little bit intoxicated when one Mike Imboden, scribe of Fist of Justice, told your humble, besotted narrator that he could either accompany him next door to the club, or he could recommend a “good Ob/Gyn.”

So, we went to the club, and I was underimpressed. However, when I went to the bar to grab a drink, and saw heard the beginning, chromatic intro to “For Whom The Bell Tolls,” I suddenly became interested. A stripper with an above average taste in music and an above average waste line shaking her stuff on a silvered pole, I was vaguely interested. In my drunken state I wanted to share in the camaraderie one finds in a state of intoxication when confronted by nude woman-flesh. I turned to the patron next to me … and saw Steve Dillon. Yes, oh my brothers, Steve “I-Fucking-Drew-Preacher” Dillon. I begin, slightly star-struck, to expound upon the virtues of female nudity, and Dillon, with a Conan-like sullen masculinity, states matter-of-factly “I belong here.”

Fucking surreal.


One Comment on ““I belong here.””

  1. brilliant.

    and weren’t those growlers we drank?

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