The next day they did indeed go to a local bar, a depressing sort of place for two people who had seen and been drunk in most of the chic underground cafe's of Paris, the outdoor naked beach bars of Cascais, the beer gardens of Bavaria, and indeed almost every place else in Europe. When they got tired of this they talked about losing their mental virginity to ecstasy at an Amsterdam club. Night after night they went out clubbing, swallowing enough hits to buzz a blue whale. They laughed and laughed and drank and either scared or annoyed most of the other customers away.
After finding and then finishing a bottle of Franny's Retsina that she had bought in Greece three years ago, they lay in each other's arms and passed out in true bliss. The next day they awoke nice and hungover and ready for a good day's fucking off. As they started off for another bar, Gert-Jan remarked to Victor in a serious tone,
"I need to talk to you today about something. Something that's been in my head for about half a year or so now. I tried to avoid it, but it kept coming back to me. When it came back to me again I tried even harder to avoid it. Then it came and actually talked to me. So I told it physically, like in time and space as we stand here, to 'fuck off'. It said, 'fine' and fucked off for about another month. Then it came back when I was in Amsterdam with Donna and sold me a hit of ecstasy that was not ecstasy. I must now go to Alaska to find out what it really was."
"Sounds logical", Victor lied.
"Hopefully, It's just me going insane again. That way, you'll be spared your half of the burden. If `half' is even an appropriate word. You actually must bear most of the burden if my senses are correct. Tomorrow I must go to Alaska and meditate in Prudhoe Bay, the last known site of a quirky adventurer named Vurt Vlassic. You, according to my admittedly very loosely-connected theory, should have at least some inkling of what I'm talking about."
"No, not a bit", quipped Victor as he quaffed down his glass of Miller wishing it instead to be a pint of bitter or maybe even a nice Hefeweizen what like they served in Civilized places.
"Nothing has happened to you that's been strange lately? Nothing?"
"No. This conversation is the first truly strange thing that's happened to me since I moved to Indiana, outside of the everyday absurdity of existence of course."
"I could smell it on you faintly. You've met one of them."
"One of what?" replied Victor curiously.
"How should I know?" said Gert-Jan irritated at Victor's ignorance.
"Oh... do you want another pitcher?"
"Yeah sure. But later on we have to go see this guy who lives here outside Evansville. His name's Mike, Mike Iptollina. He's from Moldavia or somewhere. He's got this letter for me that should clear up everything."
"Okay, sure. But... "
Once Victor and Gert-Jan had drank off their hangovers they went home and fell asleep to some Orb remixes. Gert-Jan's flight to Alaska would leave the next morning and this would be their last night together for a while. They made dinner and Gert-Jan finally convinced Victor to drive the hour and a half required to go to see Mike Iptollina.
"You just have to go, Victor, or else you won't believe me. He's got a letter for me, a letter from Saint Petersburg. No one can know that I'm going to Alaska, so don't mention it."
