"You want a nice boat man? Free whole drink man. Freewholedrink."
We crossed the Vltava river on foot, over the exquisitely designed bridge, which would have been undoubtedly more exquisite if not for the metal scaffolding all over this piece of history that must be constantly renovated.
Winding through cobble-stoned street, we eventually reached the castle, which could have easily been classified as a district like in Budapest. The St. Vitus Cathedral was over-the-top in the ornate department, and gave me an excuse to drop the term flying buttresses into conversation more than once.
We continued toward the Golden Lane, the big tourist attraction in the heart of the castle that I had heard so much about. After purchasing an overpriced ticket, we entered a lane of medieval houses and shops. After passing through, we entered a tower dedicated to showcasing torture equipment and penis armor, and then struggled to find anywhere else to go other than an exit.
"So where is this Golden Lane?" Sam asked.
"I think that was it dude."
"There's no way." We asked a security guard and it turned out that we had in fact just passed through the most overrated tourist attraction on the face of the earth.
After a few beers and a few Becherovkas, we made out was to one of Prague's famous black light theaters for an Alice and Wonderland themed show. The middle-of-winter, Sunday night crowd only took up about 10% of the theater's available seats, making me feel like I was about to sit through an elementary school piano recital.
Alice flipped and twirled through the air often, while black lights flashed in the pitch black abyss behind her. Whether the lights of a candle jumped in the air spontaneously, white gloved hands attached to nothing played a magnificent symphony with mimed instruments, or clowns juggled neon green pins in slow motion, I felt like I was under some sort of influence to say the least.
At the end of this difficult to describe spectacle, we saw everything. Alice emerged from backstage naked as a bird to meet another nude woman center stage. The two caressed each other sensually while a confusing, out of focus video played behind them.
Inspired by our favorite aspects of Alice, Sam and I decided to venture to a strip club for some light entertainment. Luckily for us, there was one a block away from our hostel on Wenceslas Square.
There was no cover charge to enter Peppers, unlike every other such fine institution I had frequented as an underage teenager in Montreal. In the hallway, we passed a fully clothed middle-aged woman gyrating on top of a pedastol and as a giant bouncer thoroughly frisked me with his man-paws, I knew I was in for an interesting night.
It was Sunday and a week before Christmas, apparently not many people felt like going to Peppers for some costly teasing. To say Sam and I got special treatment is an understatement.
Every single dancer approached us multiple times for private dances or girl-on-girl shows, which we declined out of cheapness, and ill-conceived notions of self-respect. Interestingly, the girls would begin their pitches with "per piacere," Italian for "if you please." The first time, I responded in Italian and greatly confused Candy, who informed me that the girls are taught to approach people with this line because "it's very sexy." Of course, thank you Candy.
The only dark-skinned stripper was dressed in jungle attire and seemed to be a great hit with the small crowd. She shook her backside to the beats of '90s gangsta' rap songs or crawled around roaring like lion. I wondered if any of the Peppers regulars had ever met a black person who was neither a tourist boat sailor nor a stripper.
Sam and I were shocked at what was presented to the audience without paying extra. The lesbian show "preview" seemed to give away the entire plot, while the table dance next to us that we contributed no money for, featured a tattooed blonde Czech temptress whipping three Irishman who didn't bother to finish a beer before buying another.
Excited yet unfulfilled, we took our leave around four a.m. Outside, the friendly bouncer wished us farewell.
"Did you like?" He asked.
"Yeah very much, thank you." As we spoke with him, another man approached us and stood silently, laughing when we laughed, but otherwise contributing nothing to the conversation. He dressed like he made money, a long white scarf hung down to accentuate the dress shirt concealed underneath his formal coat. He had a few wrinkles in his pale face, and I guessed that he was somewhere near sixty.
The bouncer bid us goodnight and descended back into the seedy club. The well-dressed man opened his mouth for the first time, moving close to us and speaking quietly like he was being watched.
"You guys like the girls in there?" He kept his hands in pockets, but flicked his head toward Peppers.
"Yeah of course," I replied.
"OK listen." He moved even closer. "You want one hour with one of my girls it's two thousand. Two thousand Crown, one hour." He flicked his head again toward the club and I knew that I had just been solicited for prostitution for the first time in my life. There's another one I can cross off the list.
"No thanks man," said Sam laughing. "We have early flights in the morning so-"
"Guys come on, these are spectacular girls. Do you know who I am?" he asked with eyebrows raised. He removed his hands from his pockets as if to say, "well?"
"No I'm sorry, we don't know who you are," I replied.
"Guys come on. I am Hurricane." Years of acting and improvisation together immediately came flying back to Sam and me as the two of us began a chorus of oh my God's and No way's.
"You're Hurricane? I asked intently.
"The one and only," he responded puffing out his chest.
"Dude," Sam began, turning toward me. "This guy's not Hurricane. He might know Hurricane, maybe he works for Hurricane, but he aint no Hurricane."
"What? No guys, I really am him, really." He was crushed that we questioned his apparantly well-known street identity. "Really guys, I'll prove it."
"How?" I asked with a feigned skeptical expression.
"I do karaoke all over Wenceslas Square, everyone knows my karaoke. Only Hurricane does the best Wenceslas Square karaoke."
"What do you sing then? I asked. He cleared his throat and wrapped the hanging scarf around his neck before beginning a spirited,
"Happy Blowjob to You
Happy Blowjob to You
Happy Blowjob, My Darling
Happy Blowjob, to you." He bowed low and Sam and I lost it. We slapped our knees and wiped tears from our faces, laughing until our stomachs were in serious pain. This reaction seemed to appease Hurricane.
"I like you guys," he confessed. "Here." He took out a business card, which really provided no information other than the fact that he was Hurricane in Prague. He scribbled a phone number in black ink and told us to call him anytime we "needed it real bad." I never gave him a ring, but bidding the Bohemian pimp farewell, I could not help but think that if I was ever going to pay for sex, I would ensure that Hurricane got the commission.
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