Mossy's Backpackers #9

“Greg.”

“Hey Max! Isn’t this club grand? Not too shabby for such a small town!”

“Greg, stop that.” Max placed his hand on the top of Greg’s head to stop him from nodding his head in time with the incessant beat. “Listen, I don’t think I should’ve had that last shot.”

“Nonsense mate!” He tugged ineffectively at Max’s hand then gave up with a small shrug and began tapping his foot instead.

“What time is it anyway?” Max asked while staring at Greg’s foot. He was trying to decide if he should just give up or stomp on it.

“Just about one, which means it’s about time for the foam!” Greg laughed madly and started back towards the dance floor. Max followed, his hand still firmly on the Englishman’s head.

“Brilliant. And everyone is still here?”

“I think so. Though now that you mention it, I haven’t seen Tobias for a while now.”

“Last time I saw him he was trying to get that waitress to dance with him.”

“Bloody hell,” Greg exclaimed and stopped abruptly. Max, his reflexes utterly shot as of two drinks ago, slammed into his back at full speed. “Ow, you dumb wanker! Anyway, it looks like our Swedish friend has succeeded.”

Max followed Greg’s gaze and soon spotted Tobias dancing energetically with the red haired waitress he had last seen him with. She was still wearing her uniform.

“How the…” Max began but then got sidetracked by something Greg had said earlier. “Hold on, what do you mean it’s about time for the foam?”

“What?” Greg stared at him blankly for a moment before he was able to remember his own comment. “Oh, that. Have you never been to a club that does foam?”

“I don’t really go to clubs much.”

“What?”

Max raised his voice to be heard over the music and repeated himself. He studiously ignored the glances this earned him from the clubbers around them.

“Oh mate, you’re gonna love it, come on!” Greg assured him, then led the way out into the middle of the dance floor. “And take your bloody hand off me head already!”

Max did so with as much grace as he could. Just as he began to repeat his question about the foam, the music was interrupted by the DJ. He was on the mic shouting something completely indecipherable to Max, but when he was finished everyone else on the floor began cheering wildly.

“Greg, what the –" Max began but stopped short again. The three blue contraptions which had been hanging ominously over the dance floor all night had just sprung into action. As the music began blaring again, the machines started spewing forth foam. Lots and lots of it.

“You have got to be joking mate,” Max told Greg, who was already half covered in suds.

“Just dance, it’s brilliant fun!” Greg responded as he began to whirl his arms furiously. Max shrugged and joined in. Just as he was starting to enjoy himself he slipped on the wet floor and went down hard.

He lay there for a moment, his clothes getting thoroughly soaked, contemplating the value of a quick nap. Before he could reach a decision, Greg hauled him back to his feet.

“Watch yourself there! You’ll get yourself trampled if you keep that up!” Greg yelled, then went back to doing his impression of a windmill.

“Max!”

“What now?” Max squinted at the foam covered face before him for a moment. “Oh, Kisho! What’s up my good old Japanese buddy old pal?”

“I think washing machine overflow!” Kisho yelled, looking a little panicked and a lot drunk. Max briefly considered setting him straight. But then he remembered he was in a club too far from home, covered in too much foam and full of too much booze to ignore this sort of opportunity.

“Yes! Yes, Kisho. I’m glad you found me, there isn’t much time! Here’s what you need to do: get outside as fast as you can, don’t even stop to clean up. Just get out there and tell the first cop you find what’s happening in here. Go!”

Kisho nodded, turned and stormed through the crowd. He somehow managed to not fall down, despite two very close calls. Max was wondering if he should go after him when he was distracted again.

“Greg!” He yelled, just as there was a break between songs, “I think someone just grabbed my arse!”

The dancers surrounding them erupted in cheers and cat calls. Max looked around for a moment, then thrust both arms above his head.

“Thank you!” He yelled. “And a quick follow up: to the five or six people who just grabbed it again – how would you rate it, on a scale of one to ten? One being Rosie O’Donnel, ten being Brad Pitt.”

The general consensus seemed to be an eight or nine before the next song began. Suddenly Greg grabbed him by the arm and started leading him away from the dance floor.

“I think I heard a guy give me a ten!” He told him as they reached their table.

“Yeah, you did,” Greg informed him. “He also winked at you. So maybe it’s time to get back to the hostel.”

“He what? No. No way. Really? No. You’re joking. No. Really?”

“Yes, really. Now shut up, we need to get everyone outside and call a cab.”

“Well, Kisho should be out there already,” Max laughed. “Well, unless he’s been arrested.”

Greg’s eyes widened slightly.

“Why would he be arrested?”

Max told him.

“I guess you were right after all,” Greg told him seriously. “You shouldn’t have had that last shot. Come on, maybe it’s not too late.”

They emerged from the club to find Kisho passed out on the sidewalk. Passer-bys were giving his foam-covered body a wide berth.

“I knew I should have brought my camera,” Max said mournfully.

They each grabbed him under an arm, dragged him over to the wall and sat him against it. Max lowered himself to the ground next to him.

“Go back in and get the others,” he told Greg. “I’ll keep him company.”

Greg stared at him for a moment, trying to come up with a better alternative.

“Alright, just… don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be right back out.”

“We’re just gonna sit here and chat!” Max responded as Kisho began to snore loudly. Max looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “I agree mate, the lumber industry has gotten out of hand, clear cutting has got to be stopped.” He then promptly passed out.