Somewhere In Belgium, with a Bag Full of Drugs

Bear with me, this one's kinda fuzzy...

I pulled my head off the table, and removed the teaspoon from my cheek. Nobody much noticed, apart from everyone there.

Arabs.

Lots of 'em.

I mustered a whisper of Salaam and a half-assed smile. The guy at the next table replied; Walaikum Salaam.

Why was I in a cheap cafe, full of Algerian taxi drivers? Who had bought me this vile cup of coffee, and why was I still drunk? ...And then it hit me: Fuck. I'm in Belgium.

The guy who'd recognised me enough to buy me the coffee (but not so much so, to know that I don't drink coffee) now returned to the crappy plastic table that'd been the object of my intimacy.

"We've got to find him..." he said with an air of great urgency.

I squinted at him, though my dried-on contact lenses, in the belief that I'd recognise him. I didn't  ...but I continued to pretend that I knew who he was.

"Where did you last see him?" he continued

"I don't remember..." came my muttered response

"Where were you, when you left him?"

"I don't recall" said I, sheepishly.

"Jesus. Are you Oliver North?"

"Was he there too?"

"I lost you at the nightclub, after we went to that wine-bar..."

"Did you not get in?" I said

"No. The bouncers were only letting-in locals, and I don't speak French"

"Walloon"

"Yeah, that shit: French." He slumped back in his chair. "Christ, we've got to find him. Where do you think he is?"

"Somewhere in Belgium, with a bag full of drugs."

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