Rarely are drunken shenanigans of worthy of repetition. Being drunk and stupid in Korea is no more interesting than being drunk or stupid in Canada; in either case, few stories of any interest are likely to emerge. Every once in a while a mixture of one part stupid and two parts absurd blend and I feel compelled to share. Such was the case when I expressed befuddlement over the ingrate that was Random Frat Boy. Such is the case now. Months removed from first learning of The Golden Drunk’s predicament with Cain, tequila, and fifty dollars worth of fish, I’m no closer to understanding what in the Hell Cain was thinking.
Cue another random Saturday evening. December something-or-other. The Golden Drunk and her boyfriend of the time, Cain, were somewhere stumbling around Busan, poisoning their livers in the hopes that one more drink would wash away that nagging feeling that they held in their hands their only commonality. I often humoured the thought of the two of them having a conversation of actual substance and concluded that each attempt probably ended in a tequila shot. If my suspicions were accurate, it would go a part way towards explaining what was about to unfold.
On the way back to The Golden Drunk’s apartment, the unlikely pair passed a seafood restaurant. This is hardly a remarkable event. On every corner in Busan there is a cell phone shop. Across the street is a kimbap restaurant. Diagonal to that is a seafood restaurant. A cosmetics shop or Paris Baguette is likely to fill out the remaining hole in the intersection. If you frequent my neighborhood, you may find a Love Motel or Massage Parlor in place of the seafood restaurant. The Golden Drunk and Cain were not in my neighborhood. They were near the beach, where seafood restaurants are so in abundance that they rarely warrant a second glance. Unless you’re Cain, you’re well past your limit on the tequila, and you feel compelled to be a hero. Of the Sea.
Cain, Hero of the Sea, was unable to stomach the idea that all of those beautiful, innocent fish being exploited in the seafood restaurant’s window aquarium would soon be reduced to fillet. He saw a much greater purpose for his finned friends: death by deoxygenation.
The Golden Drunk found Cain’s newfound kinship to his finned friends rather disconcerting. Had he never eaten seafood before? Since when did he care so much about killing animals? Cain loves steak! Are cows not people, too? Much arguing ensued and, if my imagination has it right, some serious hair pulling and possibly a bitch slap followed. Hopefully one of those classy full-armed white trash bitch smacks that I perfected on my friends in high school. Anything less would be seriously disappointing.
Cain wasn’t going to let a bruised cheek or even The Golden Drunk’s empty threats to withhold sex deter him: it was his purpose to save these fish from this cruel, cruel world. While the restaurant manager undoubtedly thought Cain was off his rocker, money talks: Cain walked out of there with 50 bucks worth of fish. Alive, bagged, swimmingly happy in anticipation of their new life with the Hero of the Sea.
As The Golden Drunk had pointed out, there was simply no way that they could keep half a dozen fish, each half a foot long, alive and well in her apartment. In spite of further bickering, Cain refused to accept that he was marching his new friends to an untimely death. With nowhere else to put them, The Golden Drunk and Cain filled every pot, pan, and large bowl in the apartment with tap water. Tap water.
Much to the shock of nobody, Cain’s finned friends were swimless by the time the two of them awoke.
In his efforts to save his finned friends from the cruel fate of somebody’s dinner plate, Cain, lover of all other kinds of carcass, spent fifty dollars so that these fish could die a painful death by drowning. And then be thrown into the dumpster behind The Golden Drunk’s apartment. Hero of the Sea, indeed.
The legs on The Golden Drunk and Cain’s relationship fell off not long after the fish incident. Next time, try a hooker. It’s cheaper, isn’t guaranteed to make your apartment smell foul in the morning, and requires minimal disposal. And, if you’re really lucky, she just might be in to that sort of thing. Nobody does dead fish; hookers are a definite maybe.
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