SwissBanker
Bluelighter
Tired of the "iffy" E we keep running into in Zurich (sometimes it's Good(tm): http://www.bluelight.ru/vb/showthread.php?s=&threadid=183655&r=11 sometimes not so much: http://www.saferparty.ch/de/testing/warning/) and convinced that we need [edit]unadulterated MDMA, the Girlfriend and I decide on a jaunt to Amsterdam. [edit]
Now, I know a few people in Amsterdam, but none with really strong drug connections, so I am going to have to start looking cold. This is a daunting prospect, really. I know Amsterdam pretty well, professionally, but I'm not all that into pot so that's about it. Ask me where the most honest diamond merchants are, no problem. Want an introduction to the Chairman of Rabobank or the President of ABN Amro? You got it. Looking for some E, you say? Well, then I'm about as useful as a tampon machine in the men's bathroom at a gay bar.
So we jump a Swiss flight to Amsterdam on a random Thursday. A friend of mine was just recently talking about how stereotypes dissolve with age. Well, let me tell you, the idiot who came up with the crap about all Swiss services being on time was taking someone for a fucking ride without a bikeseat since I've been on something like 25 Swiss flights in the last year and I don't think a single one of them departed with anything like punctuality. This would be just fine if I, at 6 foot something, wasn't squished into a chair designed for someone 5'7. I ponder this while watching my 5'6" girlfriend peacefully sleep through the entire delay as well as the flight itself and growing grumperier as the minute hand spins with agonizing slowness.
There are few fogs as dense, views so blurred, hazy evenings so smeared as the miasma that surrounds the design of the Amsterdam airport. Gates seem to be laid out in no particular order, and though the airport connects directly to the Dutch train system, deciphering where the track that your train is departing from resides is quite a task. Still, the airport is visually impressive. Filled with those bright clashing colors from all quarters in a patternless jumble and spattered with random, modern sculpture (than in any other circumstance could only be labeled "creepy" but since its Europe you give it a pass) in the asymmetric way that Europeans seem to think passes for "fashionable." In fact, I am now of the opinion that everything in Amsterdam was designed by someone working with less than all their cognitive functions. Perhaps we need to rethink this new drug tolerance policy, my Dutch friends? Seriously, at least if you're going permit (or at least tolerate) so many mind altering substances in your city couldn't you consider laying out public facilities in a fashion slightly more friendly to those foreign denizens who not only speak no Dutch but have also managed to stone themselves out of high double digit IQ points since arriving? I swear, between the drugs and the lack of user friendly signs and public transportation it's a wonder American and British tourists ever manage to get back out of Amsterdam once they get in. It's like an IQ event horizon or something. Once in, even investment bankers can't escape.
As seems to be the pattern for us, poor weather follows us wherever we go when E is involved. This trip was no exception. We arrived in Amsterdam after 10pm to freezing rain and sleet. The first thing I noticed, aside from the pure opacity of the layout of the airport, was the absolute plethora of police and other law enforcement officials. They were everywhere, walking around in pairs and swimming effortlessly through the miasma that seemed to blind our many fellow travelers. This was not a good starting sign. What the hell are these people thinking? I wondered almost aloud. Not only is it fucking impossible to find anything around here, like say, a drug dealer, but the poor guy is never going to sell me a fucking thing with all these uniforms around. I begin to think this crap about Amsterdam being an easy place to score any kind of drug is about as accurate as the bullshit legend about the Swiss penchant for punctuality.
We jumped a train to the city center and then took a taxi to the hotel. Figuring that taxi drivers are generally a good resource (hell, that's where the guy in Midnight Express scores his hash from, right?), I start hamming it up.
"Hey, how long have you been driving in Amsterdam," I ask, breaking the ice.
"About 20 years." (DING!)
"You must get a lot of marijuana tourists around here, yes?"
"Oh, yeah." (DING!)
"Are there any decent techno clubs left in Amsterdam? Some place to really dance?"
"Oh, of course. You'll want to go to 'Escape' on Saturday, 'It' on any day of the weekend, 'PowerZone' is also pretty good if you want real techno." (DING! DING!)
"Yeah? Great! So is it as easy to find drugs in the clubs as it is in the coffee shops here?"
"Huh?" (WAH WAHHHH)
"I mean, could we find... something more there? Something to make the dancing better?"
"Like... Redbull? They all have Reb Bull." (WAH WAHHHHH WAHHHHHHH! "Oh, I'm sorry... but Don Pardo has some wonderful parting gifts for you backstage.")
Fuck.
So much for that effort. Tired, we went straight to the hotel and passed out. It rained all night and was still pouring when we woke up the next morning.
Figuring that we'd have to score some E at a club and try to work up the chain[edit], I guessed that we should look for some 5-HTP and some Vitamin C during the day on Friday. This has proved a challenge in Europe. Walking around Zurich to various apothekes and such asking for 5-HTP tends to draw blank stares and suspicion. "You know, to help with Serotonin. The lack of sun here, it really depresses me." Usually, I am met with dull nods followed by a shaking of the head. Finally, I talked to someone who typed 5-HTP into a computer and replied "We don't have that here in Switzerland." Center of herbal medicine my ass. Well, maybe it will be easier in Amsterdam? Not really. I get about the same reaction at the Bahnhof apotheke. This Dutch drug capital thing is looking more and more like bullshit. We elect to walk through the freezing rain Southwest from Central station along the winding, tourist trap streets to grab some early lunch. We wander around until late afternoon.
Figuring, hey, we're ARE in Amsterdam, we might as well take a look at some of the headshops we duck into the first blacklight infused storefront we see, literally within view of the central station. We wander around a bit taking in the hundreds of pipes, bongs, grinders, and slew of other drug paraphernalia for about 10 minutes before something catches my eye. A big fat bottle of 5-HTP and B-Complex tablets. It's almost 50 Euro. Well, sure, why not? I ask the guy behind the counter to pass me one and as he rifles through the drawers behind the cabinets I catch sight of an EZ-Test Marquis kit.
"Do you sell the 'extreme' kits as well?" I ask.
"No, we only just got permission to market this one." I am surprised. 'Permission?'
"I'll take one." He digs it out for me.
I wander around for a little bit longer and the Girlfriend catches my eye and leans close to whisper to me. "That guy in the front has been staring at us since we got here," she says. I sneak a glance. Behind the front counter is a shorter, Arabic man, wearing almost Arabic robes. It's probably time to go, I think. I take my purchases up to the side register and our shorter Arabic friend immediately hurries over to ring up our purchase. I smile pleasantly as I present the EZ-Test and the 5-HTP. He rings it up and then asks "Is that all?" in accented but very good English.
"Yep," I say.
"That's it?" He is waiting to hit the "Total" key.
"Yep, thanks."
"You sure?" He hasn't moved. I'm not getting it but I have the sudden urge to leave.
"Uh... yeah. Thanks. This is great."
"You know, any drug you want, you should ask me." I am stunned. I am sure I sit there with my mouth open for 10 seconds. I look around. Very established shop. Clearly, a lot of inventory. Expensive rent. Nice looking place. Lots of tourists. Looks pretty safe to me actually. All this goes through my head in a split second.
"Oh... reeeealy?" I ask. "Like what...?"
"Cocaine, Ecstasy, Heroin..." I am stunned twice.
"Ecstasy, huh?"
"Sure. You want to sample? Come upstairs." Without even waiting for me to answer he starts walking to the stairs in the back of the shop. I don't see the Girlfriend, she's vanished to some cases near the back. Not wanting to hesitate, I follow him up some stairs into a backroom. Normally, I'd pass on this kind of setup, but it seems so perfect I just have to know what's next. He's got an entire little office set up there. Scales, sink, computer, desks. He brazenly unlocks and opens a drawer and pulls out a white plastic bag, the kind you get at the drugstore when you buy cough medicine or something, FILLED with three different colored pills. Yellow, Blue and Red. There must be over a thousand. He casually picks up four or five and puts them down on the table. I remember thinking he pulled them out of the bag like they were rice, or wheat or some other meaningless agricultural commodity. Something you bought and sold in sacks. "You want to test?" Why not, I figure. "Here, taste." He's holding up a little yellow bean. I put my tongue on it and it is instantly and powerfully bitter. I must have frowned because he smiles. "The yellow are strongest, 150mg. The others are about 100mg, both the same." He expertly scrapes off some shavings from the yellow pill and puts them on a white plate which looks to be there expressly for that purpose. A drop of the Marquis regent, POOF. Dark purple then black in seconds. Impressive.
"Are they pure? No speed? No, junk?" He looks offended, then gestures to himself.
"Look at me," he says, "I am not from the street." This is clear. His rings are set with what are pretty clearly well cut, colorless diamonds. The watch is an elegant Swiss affair, not a Rolex or anything flashy. The shop is probably his. I get the point.
"Ok, how much?" I ask. A million things are going through my head. Could be MDA. Could be cut with speed.
"Ten Euro each." This isn't bad really since I've been paying CHF 20 and Eur 20 for them in Switzerland. He sees my hesitation however. "Here." He puts five in a little ziplock pouch. "Try them. Come back tomorrow." I am floored. "You will see. These are pure MDMA. Very nice. Try them. Free. Come back." He hands them to me. "Do not open on the street," he says, "Cameras." Ah. No problem. He has a huge smile on his face. I sense pride in his product. This is a good sign. "You want to try some cocaine too?" What is it with dealers offering me coke all the time?
"No, thanks. I'll be back tomorrow." I try to hurry out without being impolite.
I collect the Girlfriend who is about to get mad with me in the shop. "Where the fuck did you go?" she demands.
"Not now," is all I can manage as I lead her out. We walk down the street and park at a little café for a bit to eat. I can feel the baggie burning a hole in my pocket as I sit there eating soup. I tell the girlfriend what has passed and we quickly decide to preload with some of the 5-HTP I bought and then to do the E that night.
Several hours, some 5-HTP, an hour wait, a quick jaunt into a bar bathroom to drop the yellows and we are patiently waiting for them to kick in. I am watching the Girlfriends eyes. Usually, her pupils widen right up before I feel anything so I can tell that things are working nicely. About 45 minutes pass, we're passing through security at Escape where a very nice but awfully butch girl feels us both up with something just beyond professional interest. Nothing of note yet. The Girlfriend grins at me every time I look at her eyes. I must be pretty obvious about it or something. It's our little game. "Are you fucked yet?"
Escape is, of course, Huge. People dancing on platforms, everyone appearing more or less with it. Not the complete drug addled scene I was expecting. I look at the Girlfriend's eyes one minute. Nothing. Then another. Fucking Chicago Style Pizzas. She's got that little smile on her face now. The one that says "'Da Titanic is sinking baby, and I'm dancing to the band!"
I get hit within minutes. It's not subtle. It walks up behind me with a cricket bat and lets fly right into my cerebellum with what must have been an audible THWACK. I am loved up like an Eastern European hooker on New Year's Day.
Clean. Not speedy at all. Wonderful MDMA.
Suddenly Amsterdam isn't a stuffy place at all anymore. The confusion is actually wonderful complexity, not acrid befuddlement.
In the midst of the bliss I catch a glimpse of a 20ish guy on the dancefloor, frozen with his head in his arms. Like he is trying to block out the sound of the music. I watch, transfixed on him, as his friends try unsuccessfully to pull him off the dancefloor and to the side. I am struck by the notion that he might be autistic. He continues to stand in the middle of the dancefloor, stubbornly, until the DJ drops a hard cut into a deep and driving beat song. As if by design he comes alive, and starts to dance with unprecedented vigor. The emotion hits me at the same time and I am dancing harder than I have ever danced before in no time. That bliss carries on for what must be almost an hour before I rejoin the Girlfriend and hydrate.
We play "get caught staring" together, and manage to meet a lovely, lanky, tall blond, Dutch girl who I happily give a bitter yellow bean too. She quickly becomes our companion, seemingly amused with our antics and the exotic feel of dancing with foreigners on E.
At some point it becomes a clever idea of mine to go to the airport. I think I want to see if it is really as complex and confusing as it looks, convinced the E will cut through the fog. Our Dutch companion thinks this a wonderful idea. The Girlfriend looks unsure at first but quickly warms to the idea and before long we are on the train and there I am again, talking to a train conductor on E. I get very friendly with officials on drugs I suppose. If it's possible, the Dutch conductor is far more cranky than the Swiss conductor was. He doesn't look like we wants a hug either.
I was totally wrong about the airport. I realize immediately that whoever designed it wasn't cognitively challenged, but rather cognitively highly advanced. The many bizarre and alarming features of the airport that disturbed a sober SwissBanker light up the synapses of a E'd SwissBanker like a fucking christmas tree.
It's a wonderful playground. The Dutch girl pokes me in the ribs and points. Across the terminal, against a wall are a pair of police, one of whom has a rather menacing looking submachinegun (H&K MP5 perhaps?). As if drawn by an unseen force I find myself standing in front of them talking about their weaponry (I used to be a rifle instructor). For almost ten minutes I quiz them on the various nuances of submachinegun use. I don't detect any hint of malice from them but how the fuck would I know. So I keep going, until the Girlfriend and the Dutch girl carefully coax me away with promises that the huge elephant made out of Lego in the next terminal looks really cool.
[edit]
Now, I know a few people in Amsterdam, but none with really strong drug connections, so I am going to have to start looking cold. This is a daunting prospect, really. I know Amsterdam pretty well, professionally, but I'm not all that into pot so that's about it. Ask me where the most honest diamond merchants are, no problem. Want an introduction to the Chairman of Rabobank or the President of ABN Amro? You got it. Looking for some E, you say? Well, then I'm about as useful as a tampon machine in the men's bathroom at a gay bar.
So we jump a Swiss flight to Amsterdam on a random Thursday. A friend of mine was just recently talking about how stereotypes dissolve with age. Well, let me tell you, the idiot who came up with the crap about all Swiss services being on time was taking someone for a fucking ride without a bikeseat since I've been on something like 25 Swiss flights in the last year and I don't think a single one of them departed with anything like punctuality. This would be just fine if I, at 6 foot something, wasn't squished into a chair designed for someone 5'7. I ponder this while watching my 5'6" girlfriend peacefully sleep through the entire delay as well as the flight itself and growing grumperier as the minute hand spins with agonizing slowness.
There are few fogs as dense, views so blurred, hazy evenings so smeared as the miasma that surrounds the design of the Amsterdam airport. Gates seem to be laid out in no particular order, and though the airport connects directly to the Dutch train system, deciphering where the track that your train is departing from resides is quite a task. Still, the airport is visually impressive. Filled with those bright clashing colors from all quarters in a patternless jumble and spattered with random, modern sculpture (than in any other circumstance could only be labeled "creepy" but since its Europe you give it a pass) in the asymmetric way that Europeans seem to think passes for "fashionable." In fact, I am now of the opinion that everything in Amsterdam was designed by someone working with less than all their cognitive functions. Perhaps we need to rethink this new drug tolerance policy, my Dutch friends? Seriously, at least if you're going permit (or at least tolerate) so many mind altering substances in your city couldn't you consider laying out public facilities in a fashion slightly more friendly to those foreign denizens who not only speak no Dutch but have also managed to stone themselves out of high double digit IQ points since arriving? I swear, between the drugs and the lack of user friendly signs and public transportation it's a wonder American and British tourists ever manage to get back out of Amsterdam once they get in. It's like an IQ event horizon or something. Once in, even investment bankers can't escape.
As seems to be the pattern for us, poor weather follows us wherever we go when E is involved. This trip was no exception. We arrived in Amsterdam after 10pm to freezing rain and sleet. The first thing I noticed, aside from the pure opacity of the layout of the airport, was the absolute plethora of police and other law enforcement officials. They were everywhere, walking around in pairs and swimming effortlessly through the miasma that seemed to blind our many fellow travelers. This was not a good starting sign. What the hell are these people thinking? I wondered almost aloud. Not only is it fucking impossible to find anything around here, like say, a drug dealer, but the poor guy is never going to sell me a fucking thing with all these uniforms around. I begin to think this crap about Amsterdam being an easy place to score any kind of drug is about as accurate as the bullshit legend about the Swiss penchant for punctuality.
We jumped a train to the city center and then took a taxi to the hotel. Figuring that taxi drivers are generally a good resource (hell, that's where the guy in Midnight Express scores his hash from, right?), I start hamming it up.
"Hey, how long have you been driving in Amsterdam," I ask, breaking the ice.
"About 20 years." (DING!)
"You must get a lot of marijuana tourists around here, yes?"
"Oh, yeah." (DING!)
"Are there any decent techno clubs left in Amsterdam? Some place to really dance?"
"Oh, of course. You'll want to go to 'Escape' on Saturday, 'It' on any day of the weekend, 'PowerZone' is also pretty good if you want real techno." (DING! DING!)
"Yeah? Great! So is it as easy to find drugs in the clubs as it is in the coffee shops here?"
"Huh?" (WAH WAHHHH)
"I mean, could we find... something more there? Something to make the dancing better?"
"Like... Redbull? They all have Reb Bull." (WAH WAHHHHH WAHHHHHHH! "Oh, I'm sorry... but Don Pardo has some wonderful parting gifts for you backstage.")
Fuck.
So much for that effort. Tired, we went straight to the hotel and passed out. It rained all night and was still pouring when we woke up the next morning.
Figuring that we'd have to score some E at a club and try to work up the chain[edit], I guessed that we should look for some 5-HTP and some Vitamin C during the day on Friday. This has proved a challenge in Europe. Walking around Zurich to various apothekes and such asking for 5-HTP tends to draw blank stares and suspicion. "You know, to help with Serotonin. The lack of sun here, it really depresses me." Usually, I am met with dull nods followed by a shaking of the head. Finally, I talked to someone who typed 5-HTP into a computer and replied "We don't have that here in Switzerland." Center of herbal medicine my ass. Well, maybe it will be easier in Amsterdam? Not really. I get about the same reaction at the Bahnhof apotheke. This Dutch drug capital thing is looking more and more like bullshit. We elect to walk through the freezing rain Southwest from Central station along the winding, tourist trap streets to grab some early lunch. We wander around until late afternoon.
Figuring, hey, we're ARE in Amsterdam, we might as well take a look at some of the headshops we duck into the first blacklight infused storefront we see, literally within view of the central station. We wander around a bit taking in the hundreds of pipes, bongs, grinders, and slew of other drug paraphernalia for about 10 minutes before something catches my eye. A big fat bottle of 5-HTP and B-Complex tablets. It's almost 50 Euro. Well, sure, why not? I ask the guy behind the counter to pass me one and as he rifles through the drawers behind the cabinets I catch sight of an EZ-Test Marquis kit.
"Do you sell the 'extreme' kits as well?" I ask.
"No, we only just got permission to market this one." I am surprised. 'Permission?'
"I'll take one." He digs it out for me.
I wander around for a little bit longer and the Girlfriend catches my eye and leans close to whisper to me. "That guy in the front has been staring at us since we got here," she says. I sneak a glance. Behind the front counter is a shorter, Arabic man, wearing almost Arabic robes. It's probably time to go, I think. I take my purchases up to the side register and our shorter Arabic friend immediately hurries over to ring up our purchase. I smile pleasantly as I present the EZ-Test and the 5-HTP. He rings it up and then asks "Is that all?" in accented but very good English.
"Yep," I say.
"That's it?" He is waiting to hit the "Total" key.
"Yep, thanks."
"You sure?" He hasn't moved. I'm not getting it but I have the sudden urge to leave.
"Uh... yeah. Thanks. This is great."
"You know, any drug you want, you should ask me." I am stunned. I am sure I sit there with my mouth open for 10 seconds. I look around. Very established shop. Clearly, a lot of inventory. Expensive rent. Nice looking place. Lots of tourists. Looks pretty safe to me actually. All this goes through my head in a split second.
"Oh... reeeealy?" I ask. "Like what...?"
"Cocaine, Ecstasy, Heroin..." I am stunned twice.
"Ecstasy, huh?"
"Sure. You want to sample? Come upstairs." Without even waiting for me to answer he starts walking to the stairs in the back of the shop. I don't see the Girlfriend, she's vanished to some cases near the back. Not wanting to hesitate, I follow him up some stairs into a backroom. Normally, I'd pass on this kind of setup, but it seems so perfect I just have to know what's next. He's got an entire little office set up there. Scales, sink, computer, desks. He brazenly unlocks and opens a drawer and pulls out a white plastic bag, the kind you get at the drugstore when you buy cough medicine or something, FILLED with three different colored pills. Yellow, Blue and Red. There must be over a thousand. He casually picks up four or five and puts them down on the table. I remember thinking he pulled them out of the bag like they were rice, or wheat or some other meaningless agricultural commodity. Something you bought and sold in sacks. "You want to test?" Why not, I figure. "Here, taste." He's holding up a little yellow bean. I put my tongue on it and it is instantly and powerfully bitter. I must have frowned because he smiles. "The yellow are strongest, 150mg. The others are about 100mg, both the same." He expertly scrapes off some shavings from the yellow pill and puts them on a white plate which looks to be there expressly for that purpose. A drop of the Marquis regent, POOF. Dark purple then black in seconds. Impressive.
"Are they pure? No speed? No, junk?" He looks offended, then gestures to himself.
"Look at me," he says, "I am not from the street." This is clear. His rings are set with what are pretty clearly well cut, colorless diamonds. The watch is an elegant Swiss affair, not a Rolex or anything flashy. The shop is probably his. I get the point.
"Ok, how much?" I ask. A million things are going through my head. Could be MDA. Could be cut with speed.
"Ten Euro each." This isn't bad really since I've been paying CHF 20 and Eur 20 for them in Switzerland. He sees my hesitation however. "Here." He puts five in a little ziplock pouch. "Try them. Come back tomorrow." I am floored. "You will see. These are pure MDMA. Very nice. Try them. Free. Come back." He hands them to me. "Do not open on the street," he says, "Cameras." Ah. No problem. He has a huge smile on his face. I sense pride in his product. This is a good sign. "You want to try some cocaine too?" What is it with dealers offering me coke all the time?
"No, thanks. I'll be back tomorrow." I try to hurry out without being impolite.
I collect the Girlfriend who is about to get mad with me in the shop. "Where the fuck did you go?" she demands.
"Not now," is all I can manage as I lead her out. We walk down the street and park at a little café for a bit to eat. I can feel the baggie burning a hole in my pocket as I sit there eating soup. I tell the girlfriend what has passed and we quickly decide to preload with some of the 5-HTP I bought and then to do the E that night.
Several hours, some 5-HTP, an hour wait, a quick jaunt into a bar bathroom to drop the yellows and we are patiently waiting for them to kick in. I am watching the Girlfriends eyes. Usually, her pupils widen right up before I feel anything so I can tell that things are working nicely. About 45 minutes pass, we're passing through security at Escape where a very nice but awfully butch girl feels us both up with something just beyond professional interest. Nothing of note yet. The Girlfriend grins at me every time I look at her eyes. I must be pretty obvious about it or something. It's our little game. "Are you fucked yet?"
Escape is, of course, Huge. People dancing on platforms, everyone appearing more or less with it. Not the complete drug addled scene I was expecting. I look at the Girlfriend's eyes one minute. Nothing. Then another. Fucking Chicago Style Pizzas. She's got that little smile on her face now. The one that says "'Da Titanic is sinking baby, and I'm dancing to the band!"
I get hit within minutes. It's not subtle. It walks up behind me with a cricket bat and lets fly right into my cerebellum with what must have been an audible THWACK. I am loved up like an Eastern European hooker on New Year's Day.
Clean. Not speedy at all. Wonderful MDMA.
Suddenly Amsterdam isn't a stuffy place at all anymore. The confusion is actually wonderful complexity, not acrid befuddlement.
In the midst of the bliss I catch a glimpse of a 20ish guy on the dancefloor, frozen with his head in his arms. Like he is trying to block out the sound of the music. I watch, transfixed on him, as his friends try unsuccessfully to pull him off the dancefloor and to the side. I am struck by the notion that he might be autistic. He continues to stand in the middle of the dancefloor, stubbornly, until the DJ drops a hard cut into a deep and driving beat song. As if by design he comes alive, and starts to dance with unprecedented vigor. The emotion hits me at the same time and I am dancing harder than I have ever danced before in no time. That bliss carries on for what must be almost an hour before I rejoin the Girlfriend and hydrate.
We play "get caught staring" together, and manage to meet a lovely, lanky, tall blond, Dutch girl who I happily give a bitter yellow bean too. She quickly becomes our companion, seemingly amused with our antics and the exotic feel of dancing with foreigners on E.
At some point it becomes a clever idea of mine to go to the airport. I think I want to see if it is really as complex and confusing as it looks, convinced the E will cut through the fog. Our Dutch companion thinks this a wonderful idea. The Girlfriend looks unsure at first but quickly warms to the idea and before long we are on the train and there I am again, talking to a train conductor on E. I get very friendly with officials on drugs I suppose. If it's possible, the Dutch conductor is far more cranky than the Swiss conductor was. He doesn't look like we wants a hug either.
I was totally wrong about the airport. I realize immediately that whoever designed it wasn't cognitively challenged, but rather cognitively highly advanced. The many bizarre and alarming features of the airport that disturbed a sober SwissBanker light up the synapses of a E'd SwissBanker like a fucking christmas tree.
It's a wonderful playground. The Dutch girl pokes me in the ribs and points. Across the terminal, against a wall are a pair of police, one of whom has a rather menacing looking submachinegun (H&K MP5 perhaps?). As if drawn by an unseen force I find myself standing in front of them talking about their weaponry (I used to be a rifle instructor). For almost ten minutes I quiz them on the various nuances of submachinegun use. I don't detect any hint of malice from them but how the fuck would I know. So I keep going, until the Girlfriend and the Dutch girl carefully coax me away with promises that the huge elephant made out of Lego in the next terminal looks really cool.
[edit]
Last edited by a moderator:
Sorry y'all!