In a perfect world
The man next to me was very drunk. He had first tried to talk to the barmaid but she’d been too busy. Now he was trying to start a conversation with me. I wasn’t really paying attention, so I was slightly surprised when I suddenly heard the words:
“In a perfect world slot machines would drink blood.”
I nodded. It wasn’t hard to envision such a arrangement: slot machines designed as reversed petrol pumps, with hoses that ended in syringes, which could be stuck into those junkie gamblers’ stomachs, sucking and burbling away - happily ever after.
Another image: an honest-to-God vampire bar. Outside, the brewery van arrives. Aristocratic types wearing coats roll in the kegs. The first keg is installed. Some sexy bar vamp, in red lingerie (with cape), holds a glass under the tap. Blood screams into the glass. She puts the glass, topped with pink foam, on the bar. The guests sit there and grin, showing pointy teeth. The jukebox plays Rivers of blood by Frankie and the Fangs.
The drunk kept blathering about the evil of slot machines. I was getting seriously bored, so I reached for the trusted and invisible, magic remote that was lying on the bar, next to my beer and turned off the sound. It was time for some more serious daydreaming. When my beer glass stood empty, the woman behind the bar filled it: more magic.
I looked to my right, at an empty bar stool. I looked over my shoulder and yes, of course, the drunk was now seriously but fruitlessly engaged in conversation with the slot machine.
Another mad snapshot: Churchill in a cape, with a white finger, sucked dry and stuck, cigar style, in his mouth. The great man addresses the nation and promises blood, sweat and tears. The people, ears glued to their radio sets, brush away bloody tears and sigh happily. They know they’re in good hands.
Some minutes later the drunk walked back to the bar and asked for more coins.
“In a perfect world there would be no farmers, no pig keepers, no fishermen,” I announced.
The man looked at me, half curious, half alarmed. He looked at the bartender. She smiled back at him.
“In a perfect world it would rain blood every day.” I continued; “People would put out buckets each night, so they’d have enough food for the following day. No more overfishing, no more butter mountains or milk seas, no more bioindustry - and people would collect blood for Africa.”
The drunk now looked very confused. I took another sip of beer.
“I like blood,” I said and smiled at him.
The barmaid licked her lips and hissed:
“Yesss…”
The drunk hastily put on his coat, settled his bill and then half-ran out of the bar. In the door opening he looked back at us one more time, before disappearing into the night.
“That wasn’t very nice.” the barmaid said and brought me another beer.
I shared one last image with her:
Outside, the drunk is now being attacked by a swarm of mobile phones; vampire phones, of course. Each one comes with its own, highly annoying ring-tone and a tiny, red cape. The mobiles ring, suck, vibrate and drink deeply. Then, fully recharged, they fly off again.
Bled out, the drunk’s remains lie in the street. A passing garbage can stops and ingests the body in two large bites. In a perfect world garbage cans come and remove the trash all by themselves, of course.
“You’re crazy,” the bartender said and poured me a shot of Jameson; “This one’s on me.”
“Ta.”
I raised my glass to her; she saluted me. Blesséd silence reigned again.