The Chaser Bar
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Florentin screams at night. The graffiti on the walls seems to move in the periphery of your vision. You are sitting at the Chaser Bar, squeezed between Guy and Alex Snickers. The air smells of cheap tobacco, sweat, and something chemical.
Alex is mid-rant, his eyes wide and dilated. "...I tell you, in Kazakhstan, it's different. The boots, Ilya! The boots of the cuckold!" He slams his hand on the sticky table. Guy is nodding slowly, looking at the ceiling as if calculating the geometry of the universe.
On the table lies a small bag of white powder. The line between reality and delirium is thinning.