a cmuki!

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Who had a bigger boat, wore the better outfit, got the best table seemed all that mattered. There were decade-old feuds over casual cracks long forgotten by everyone but the principals. They circled each other still—waiting to identify a weakness—looking for somewhere and some way to strike. People jockeyed for position, cut each other's throats over the most petty, nonsensical shit imaginable. This is from the people who, it gradually began to dawn on me, actually run the world.
I was lingering over the buffet on a Dr. No-size yacht with an appropriately Bond-esque name: huge interior docking inside the hull, a six-man submarine, landing space for two helicopters, and Francis Bacon originals in the crapper. I looked up from the sushi and got the impression that anybody there—any of the guests dancing, schmoozing, chatting politely at the party—would have watched my throat getting cut without the slightest change in expression.
I was a bad person in a bad place, with another bad person, surrounded by other, possibly even worse people.

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Fiftyish men with potbellies hanging out over their Speedos with pneumatic-breasted Ukrainian whores—during brunch. Over-groomed little dogs in diamond chokers snapped and barked at one's heels. Waiters looked at everyone with practiced expressions of bemused contempt.
There was, however, one glimmer of light—or inspiration—in all this darkness:
One man on the island understood better than anyone the world my companion moved in. An artist, a genius—a man who stood alone in his ability, the sheer relish with which he fucked the rich. Let's call him, for the purposes of this discussion, Robèrt…

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For the main course, there is the option of chicken or fish. Chicken is one leg, which Robèrt himself (that's him, the scowling, shirtless, and unshaven fellow over there, wearing an apron, shorts, and flip-flops) will personally burn into unrecognizability for you. Nothing less than carbonized will satisfy his exacting standards. Robèrt will take the extra step to ruin your chicken each and every time. People who've had the temerity* to step over to the grill preemptively and suggest that, perhaps, this order could be a little less cooked find themselves quickly in the street—next to Madonna.
The fish option is a small, barely cleaned, whole red snapper, prepared with similar attention to detail—which is to say, burned to shit.
Price for these delights of land and sea? Fifty euros (about seventy-five bucks) each.
Add a chilled bottle of the cheapest rosé on the list to stave off the summer's heat, and ameliorate, perhaps, the taste of campfire in your mouth, and you're talking five hundred dollars for lunch. Merci—and fuck you very much!
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* - pārgalvība

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ahh, cik jauki, izmests uz ielas blakus madonnai!

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galdautiņš-celiņš uz bruģi

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