Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

“Babak, I’m not supposed to pay you until next Sunday. And there’s no chance in hell I can get it for today, anyway. Forget about it. You’ve already pocketed half of what I made last month.”

Simon knew the rules. He had to be punished now. But the thing about tonight: he would’ve been punished either way.

A shove. Simon stumbled back a couple of steps. Babak was steaming. Robert was steaming. Mahmud felt so happy—back on the street, a chance to score. He wanted in. Wanted to feel the kick. Took a step forward.

“You fucking cunt. What are you, slow? Hand over the cash.”

The friend stuck his head out through the front door. From a distance, he looked tired, dark circles under his eyes. He yelled, “What the hell are you doing?”

Babak took a solid grip on Simon’s arm.

“Tell your nasty little buddy over there to shut up. You say you don’t got cash, but someone’s gotta pay, right? You bought four bottles from me, but you only paid for two. Who you think’s gonna cover the other two, huh? You promised you’d fix it. You want me to spend my own money, huh?”

“But I promised I’d get it.”

“Forget that. We’re gonna go up to your little fag fest and you’re gonna get the dough now.”

There were fourteen people in the apartment, a large studio with a spacious kitchen. The boys were playing FIFA on a PS3. Ill graphics.

Babak went straight into the kitchen. Dragged Simon along. Mahmud sat down in front of a computer, scrolled through the MP3s. Fucking pussy music. Didn’t they have any black beats?

Robert leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Both he and Mahmud knew something was gonna pop. Knew they were perceived as gorillas. Waited for Babak’s signal.

Obvious: Robert was bugging out. Mahmud could feel the brass knuckles in his pocket. Babak was out in the kitchen with Simon, could feel the vibes, was probably tweaking.

The party seemed more like a dull night in than a birthday bash.

Aside from Babak and Simon, there were some chicks in the kitchen. When Babak walked in, the bitches went into the living room.

One of the chicks put her hands on her hips. Said, “You have to stop playing. It’s so boring when you just sit there.”

No real response. The soccer playing continued.

Obvious tension in the room.

Babak came into the living room. The number one blatte. No sign of Simon. Mahmud dug the situation. Babak nodded. Finally time to rumble. Babak took a step forward. Mahmud positioned himself in front of the couch, broad stance. The gamers looked up.

Babak, with a thicker accent than usual: “Turn off the fucking PlayStation. This is a robbery.”

Real R2-aggression, no boundaries. Mahmud slipped on the brass knuckles. “And don’t whine, you’ll regret it.” He slid his hand over his throat. Robert, next to him: backed up with a butterfly.

“Empty your pockets. Cash, phones, subway passes, whatever you got. You know what we want. Put the shit on the table.”

The guys looked like they were gonna shit themselves. Mahmud thought the girls’ faces grew as white as cocaine, despite the layer of self-tanner. They pulled out their cell phones reluctantly. A couple of them fished out subway passes and wallets.

Mahmud did the collecting. Emptied cash out of wallets. Left the plastic. Gathered the subway passes and cell phones. Hauled stuff over to Babak and Robert. They shoved it all into their jacket pockets.

So easy. The Svens just handed it over.

One of the girls looked totally gone. Like someone’d slipped a Valium in her beer. Mahmud shoved her.

“Ey, yo. Give us your stuff.”

She hardly reacted. Handed over her subway pass. Nothing else.

Time to split.

Robert was riled up. Wanted to fight. Started roaring. Waving the knife around. Aimed a kick at one of the guys in front of the TV. Mahmud dragged him out. Babak slammed the door shut.

They ran down the stairs.

The high was still thick. He felt so fucking angry.

Could easily’ve beaten the shit out of anybody.

Yelled in the stairwell.

Almost forgot all the stress and anxiety over his problems: the Gürhan fucker, Erika at the parole office, Dad’s whining.

Down on the street.

Into Robert’s car.

Tried to calm down.

One final roar. They rolled the window down, hollered, “Alby forever!”

The effect of the Rohypnol was dropping off. Soon back to reality.

They counted the money in the car: 4,800 kronor. Twelve subway passes. Could be flipped for 200 kronor a pass. Sweet phones. Twenty DVDs from Simon’s bookshelf. And, yup: the PS3 game. Nice haul. Mahmud tried to do the math in his head. Hoped the boys would lend him more. Maybe it’d be enough.

Babak and Robert: angel homies—let Mahmud keep the whole enchilada on credit.

Now he had one day to flip the subway passes, the phones, the movies, and the game.

He hoped it would be enough.

Niklas and Benjamin ordered a second round of beers. Type: Norrlands, bottles. The Swedish smoking ban was sweet. But Benjamin was complaining. “Honestly, before all you had to do was treat the ladies to a smoke, get a free reason to start chatting.”

His T-shirt today was black with Outlaws written in white letters across the front, plus the image of a motorcycle. Niklas thought either his old buddy was acting like a bad boy, or he actually was one.

The bar was situated in Fridhemsplan. According to Benjamin: Fridhemsplan was sweet dank-dive paradise. And this bar, Friden, was apparently the mother of all dank-dives. They laughed.

Niklas liked the place. It wasn’t his first time there, but his first in eight years. Exemplary pricing: the beer hardly cost more than when he’d left Sweden. Cute waitresses. Comfy couches, loud volume, cheap grub. Wood paneling along the walls. A number of banners with different soccer-team emblems were hung up above the paneling. Beer ads and glitter that looked like Christmas decorations. Their beers arrived in warm glasses straight from the dishwasher. The peanuts were served in bowls that resembled ashtrays. Mixed crowd: mostly AIK soccer fans and drunks, but a bunch of younger types, too. He dug the atmosphere.

Benjamin went to the bathroom. Niklas studied his right hand. There was some swelling over the middle knuckle. He remembered: three fast punches. Good technique: 80 percent of the punch’d been absorbed by the knuckles on his pointer and index fingers. Broken at least one of the asshole’s ribs. Rightly so.

Benjamin returned. Tried to pinch one of the waitresses in the butt before he sat down in the booth with Niklas. She didn’t even react. A relief. Niklas didn’t want any trouble.

Benjamin smiled. “It’s damn strange. The stench in the bathrooms in this place is exactly the same as the stench in the bathrooms in the ER at Mariapol, remember? That nasty place we got sent when we were smashed as kids?”

“When was the last time you were in the ER there? That’s gotta be ten years ago.”

“Sure, but I promise you, that stench gets stuck in your nostrils like a fucking piercing.”

“Good thing we’re near the entrance, then, so you can get some fresh air.”

They laughed. Benjamin was okay, after all. Maybe Niklas would get used to living in Sweden.

Two beers later. Niklas was starting to get buzzed. Benjamin claimed that he needed at least eight brewskies for it to even show up in a cop’s Breathalyzer. Niklas said he talked more bullshit than a merchant in the souk. They laughed again. It felt good to laugh together.

The entire time, in the back of Niklas’s head: he’d made the world a better place the other day. A safer place for innocent women.