‘He looks like a wounded, pale lion. What the hell do you say to a wounded, pale lion who lost his mate? Nothing. You just sit there and listen.
People have always told me the stories of their lives because I know how to sit there and look like I care.
Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.
Part of me thinks this girl was more mature than him and she decided to cut her losses. You don’t want to make babies with a man-child, know what I mean? Then again, what the fuck do I know?
Maybe some people can actually have children and just be happy, you know? Who am I to judge? Maybe I’m just the jealous gremlin under the bridge. The jealous, lonely troll.
So we come to Katia. Not her real name, of course.
This gorgeous Finnish girl, blonde, big blue eyes, great skin and perfect body, just comes out of the Teahouse and starts chatting with Markus in Finnish like nobody’s business.
I can’t understand what they’re saying and I hope to God they’re not commenting on the appearance of the Romanian dude sitting across the table from Nylund.
I mean, they seem to share something so maybe he has a shot! She goes out the gates and he turns to me and continues the story about his ex.
’Great sex. Best sex I ever had. And together, we had fire, man! It was pure energy. Even if we were arguing, we were still screwing.’
He talks about sex as if it’s something magical, ancestral. Beyond words.
I imagine lions fucking each other’s brains out in the middle of the savannah, on top of a half-eaten antelope. I love Animal Planet. I’d watch that shit all day.
I can see he still loves her after all this time. Don’t know what to say to him, really. Thankfully, Katia returns and plants her gorgeous ass right next to us. We start talking about random stuff.
I tell them about Dracula, the real one, not the Bela Lugosi one. I find out that Helsinki is unsafe in the winter, that the icicles are so thick, they can cave a man’s skull in.
Katia is gorgeous. I think her pussy must taste like freedom. She seems a bit on the kinky side too. I’m pretty sure she’s aware of how atractive she is, but for some reason, I do not hate her.
When she leaves to go to the toilet, Markus looks at me and grins. Can he see that I want her? Is it written on my face? Am I THAT obvious?
When Katia returns, the triangle of the North and South is complete: Markus is the top, Katia the center and me at the bottom. That’s kinda how I feel in society.
Katia wears a black sport jacket, kinda tight and too thin to keep her warm. How does she NOT feel the cold?
As we talk about anything, a thought comes over me: this is it. This is home. This, right here.
Me, talking with these Nordics feels more like ‘home’ than I ever felt among Romanians. It must be something in my blood.
Katia says Romanian people are really good looking and smartly dressed.
I keep my opinions to myself.
It gets too cold even for Finish blood so we go inside.
We go in. Markus dissappeared and I am left to look after Katia. Guys hang around her like flies over hot shit. It’s ridiculous!
I try to keep her entertained. I don’t want to fuck her, at this point, I just want to keep her safe. There’s another dude, who looks like a student hobo, totally fucked up on some new shit. His idea of approaching a beautiful woman is telling her about his physics project. For real, nigga?
He looks at her despairing, like he’s given up the fight before it even began.
At one point, he excuses himself and fucks off into mediocrity. I look deep into Katia’s eyes.
Just maintaining her gaze gives me immense pleasure. I tell her that I like her mouth, her eyes, her skin. Not necessarily in that particular order.
’My husband never tells me that.’ she confesses. ‘He never tells me I’m beautiful.’
’He must have problems with his eyesight. You should get him glasses.’
Hours pass with the speed of snails on Ecstasy. I look around the room, feeling helpless beside the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on, in this lifetime. No more suitors land on our table. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Markus sits outside, on the couch in the hallway. He eyeballs me aggressively, like his ancestors must’ve did with seals and whales and Christians. Is he jealous?
Could the Great Viking be shy? I see him picking up his massive guitar. People are already circling around him like he’s a living campfire. Perhaps he is. Perhaps I was sitting too close to the legend to know the truth. Maybe I’m just a little dipshit like all the rest, just orbiting this blinding, massive supernova that calls itself Markus Nylund.
Maybe HE’s the dipshit. We’ll never know.
Even Kiki, the tight, little Asian who ignored him when he spoke casually, now comes closer to pay her respects. Mesmerized by the song.
Her senses bow down to the druid. This is the sacred circle. Welcome!
Everybody gathers around the Shaman, like they did in ancient times.
And Markus sings with an angelic voice, in sharp contrast with his brutal beard. Gods be good, that beard! He must chop wood with his face, back in Finland.
And here I am, just lying to myself. Lying that I don’t want to be a Shaman. Lying that I don’t want to be successful. Lying that I don’t want to fuck Katia over and over again, until I die inside her sweet little pussy.
’I have to go’ the Nordic nymph tells me. ‘Plane to catch tommorow.’
I know, I know. You got a life. A sweet, adventurous life where you get to travel the world and see cool, new and wonderful places. Where you meet fresh people every day, so many that you just don’t give a shit anymore.
And me, just rotting here, in my safe and smelly nest, hoping to make it big somehow, through some God damned miracle. But this book isn’t about me. No, it’s about Markus, the Finnish-Canadian Unicorn.
Markus, who routinely deletes his Facebook account and ghosts his friends.
Markus, who perseveres in burning everything to the ground in order to reinvent himself.
Markus, who convinced me to write this book and invest in him more energy and time than I invest in myself.
Markus, who calls himself the Devil sometimes and preys on your dreams and expectations, then calls you an idiot for believing him.
Markus, who advised me that in order to fuck beautiful women, I had to respect the Big 3:
Look Good, Smell Good & Feel Good.
Markus, who gets to have a biography long before he’s even famous.
Markus, who told me to hit the gym hard and after a few months, to find the hottest girl in Bucharest and to tell her that I need her help in buying a new wardrobe.
Markus, the crazy mad bastard who blocked me twice and I kept on coming.
Markus, the teacher, the bro, the Viking.
Markus, who saved my life.
End of Chapter ONE’
Written by Costin Patru