Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

I show it to him. Hold it up, the side with the letters toward him. He’s already seen it, after all. I have to resist the urge to thrust the corner of the Zippo into his eye.

“What’s this? Why d’you have this?”

“Oh, that? ’Cause of the picture? That…”—now think for once, Heiko—“I swiped it off a super fanboy prick from Peine-West after a match between the U23 reserve teams”—using the derogatory nickname Braunschweig has given Hannover—“a kind of war trophy.”

I smile stupidly and try to scowl, though I’d like to barf because I’m denying my hometown. He looks at me, probably checking to see if he can really believe me.

I double down: “He got on my nerves. I smacked him one and pocketed this here.”

“Right on,” he finally says and can’t hold back his shit-eating grin.

I put the Zippo away and shrug my shoulders. Like it was pretty damn easy. Nothing special.

We smoke a while next to each other. I flick the cig into the huge puddle and say, “I’ll go then.”

He steps aside so I can pass. Got lucky, worst case I’d have had to knock out the fucker or something.

“Have fun,” he wishes me, “and thanks for the cigarette.”

“No problem,” I say and push open the door.

There’s amped-up pop music booming from the loudspeakers in the bar. On the left is the counter lined with imitation bamboo, with two greasy barkeepers standing behind the bar and mixing cocktails in the neon light. Probably made up purely of knock-off products from big box stores. Gallon canisters and such. At any rate, the bottles with the good stuff are lined up behind them on the mirrored shelves. None of these cocktail bars can offer drinks on the cheap without using lower-quality ingredients. Straight through the room. Low round tables with wooden chairs spread around like groups of islands. Most of them are taken. In the back and to the left, I can see the glassed-in smoking lounge, which is full of people willing to put up with smoking while packed in like sardines instead of just stepping outside. I can’t see the guy with the wart. I look around some more and to the right, on the wall covered with thick, black fabric, I spot an arrow pointing to the toilets. There’s a guy washing his hands just as I enter the men’s room. He leaves, and I’m left alone. Finally get lucky for once. There’s just a single stall. There are three urinals attached to the wall behind it. I slip the gloves on, grab the back-up roll of toilet paper from the stall, rip off a wad of paper, and stuff it into the drains of the urinals as fast and as deep as I can. Then I flush repeatedly so the urinals are full to the brim. Go into the stall and lock up. Lift the lid off the tank and try to remember how exactly Ulf and I always ruined the toilets at school. Just about to flush when the music gets louder for a second. Quickly check if I really locked up. Okay. I hear footfalls heading for the urinals. Then hear a “Shit, what the hell is this?” The footfalls come closer, and he knocks on the door. Faster than I can think, I’m bending over the open toilet bowl, pulling off a glove, accidently ripping it, and sticking two fingers down my throat. My gagging echoes in the bowl.

“Finish puking already, man. Need to piss,” I hear from outside. Come on! I stick my finger as deep as it’ll go down my throat. Dry gagging. He knocks again.

Past my spit-covered fingers, I say he should fuck off and I’m gonna need a while. I try to sound as trashed and wasted as possible. Then a torrent of bile finally shoots out of my mouth and splashes into the toilet bowl. The guy laughs gleefully. I have half a mind to throw the door open and stuff the idiot’s face into the toilet, but then you could hear the music again and the door to the men’s room falls shut. I listen briefly. Then I peer underneath the stall. No feet visible. He gave up. I let myself close my eyes for a second. Give myself a breather. Spit sour left-over bile into the bowl. A trail of drool sticks to my lower lip, which I wipe with my bare arm. Come on! I encourage myself. I press down on the lever. The water circles down from the tank and into the bowl. Using my hand with the glove, I reach for the stopper in the tank and hold it up. Use my other hand to unroll some paper and quickly stuff it into the opening under the stopper. I press it down with two fingers. Calcium slime clings to the fingers. Have a sniff. Let go of the stopper. While the tank is filling, I yank at the bobber with all my strength. I drop it and kick it away. Then I put the lid back on the tank and wipe my hands with the remaining toilet paper, and throw that into the bowl.

“Oh man, you smell like a mix of urinal deodorizer and crotch cheese,” Kai says as I climb back into the van and toss the gloves into the door pocket.

Jojo asks impatiently how it went.

“How do you think it went? Because I’m such a fucking idiot, I almost already gave myself away at the door, and I had to stick a finger down my throat in the men’s room, just to deliver an Oscar-worthy acting performance.”

“I don’t understand a word,” Jojo says.

So I give them all the details, the way it went down. Then we wait.

Kai’s constantly lighting up his phone to check the time, till I tell him to knock it off.

“What kind of steel-lined bladder does that dog have? Has to take a piss at some point.”

“Maybe they’ve already fixed the toilets,” Jojo says.

“I did a bang-up job. That’ll never happen—”

Kai taps me on the shoulder, and I follow his gaze through the windshield.

“Well, fuck my shit—is it him?” I ask.

Kai and I slide down a little farther in our seat, and the trio just leaving the bar staggers onto the street and into view. My eyes have narrowed to slits. The three guys step into the glow of a light on the other side of the street.

“It’s him,” Kai says and pounds on his thighs. “That’s the cocksucker.”

I thought I spotted the wart on his cheek for a second. And the blond part.

“Yeah,” I say, and my mouth starts to water, “okay. We’ll wait until they’ve finished pissing. Calmly get out. Don’t slam the doors, and then jump ’em.”

Jojo and Kai nod. We lie in wait for our fucking prey. They walk up the street a bit so that they’re almost level with our van. Then they take position, close together and legs apart, next to the fence that separates off the factory grounds behind it. They appear to be conversing. Their heads move slightly up and down.

“Let’s go,” I say and carefully open my door. Kai and Jojo follow my lead. I keep the handle cocked and close the door as quietly as possible. The click of the lock still feels like a hammer blow. The three guys are pinching it off.

“Hey, you cunts!” I call out.

We’re standing in the middle of the street. They turn around. No chance to react. Kai, of course, is the first there and jumps toward wart-face with his foot extended. The guy flies back against the fence, exactly where he’d just pissed. The two others have no idea what’s going on when Jojo and me run at them. I reach out with my left hand and grab the dude’s shirt, following it with a swinging right that lands full-force under his nose. I feel his rows of teeth through the skin and my fingers supposedly hurt. I pull my hand back. He pukes. Maybe from shock. Maybe from pain. I’ve split his upper lip and the thick scent of blood flowing wafts in my direction. The guy howls. Holds his face and goes down. He catches the blood in his palm and even in the dusky glow of the streetlamps, I can see that his hand quickly fills. I glance to the side. Kai’s pulled wart-face up and is pushing him against the fence. Landing one punch after another to his gut. Jojo’s having a harder time. His opponent has grabbed his arm and pulls him around. Jojo starts to stumble and runs right into his elbow. I run over and pull the guy off Jojo. Put him in a headlock and make my knee slam up like a spring, Muay Thai–style. He tries to raise his arms. But my knee still lands in his solar plexus and he releases air like a beanbag you’ve jumped on.