Prologue

 

It’s not hard to spot someone on steroids. You just have to know what to look for and have a little patience. Eventually, you’re bound to notice a rapidly aging face covered in mounds of acne, red skin or a bloated belly. Soon you’ll also see the ravenous baldness stretching out from the sides like a hungry herd, and the unnaturally sharp muscles rippling all over the body — that is, of course, if the usage is accompanied by proper training. The effect of anabolic steroids is most visible on the shoulders and back. Carving them out properly is hard work but for juicers, it usually takes just a few months before deltoid muscles stick out of their shoulders like two pointed wings, and their backs become tangled with massive mounds of traps, making them look like they’ve got bread dough rising under the napes of their necks.

There’s also talk about the effect of steroids on personality but this is a common misconception: anabolics don’t promote aggression. You don’t feel like beating someone up just for the sake of it. They merely increase assertiveness. In fact, many users mention a greater level of composure, which comes from chemically induced self-confidence. Generally, people who use steroids feel more capable, stronger, tend to be in a good mood, and it’s only when they get off the anabolics that they experience deep lows or depression. Sirdine, a recently popular extract derived from the blue meat of a widely distributed parrot species, is worlds apart from classical steroids: it is a potent hallucinogen that induces chaotic aggression in its users. The sirdine high lasts only a few hours, and rather than a feeling of happiness in the true sense of the word, it’s more like a surge of something sweet yet rash – a kind of spiteful glee. The long-term growth effect of sirdine is somewhat smaller than that of anabolic steroids but there’s no need to administer it intravenously. Overall, it holds true that with Oxana, Diana, or Tren – nicknames for classic steroids used by juicers – you know exactly what to expect. When you use sirdine though, you venture into uncharted territory, where anything and anyone might be lurking.

The brawls between sirdine users are extremely entertaining to watch. This is also why the extract enjoys such popularity in some exhibition combat sports. If you’ve seen someone biting or choking their opponent in a particularly creative way lately, it was definitely a sirdine user. The physical effects of sirdine are not easily recognisable at first glance. Even with a stronger dose, there are no dilated pupils, an unhinged jaw or the familiar ‚wobble‘ that betrays a meth head. Sirdine doesn’t cause any of it, and it doesn’t even strain the heart or kidneys. Apart from muscle growth, the only visible long-term effect is an increased amount of body hair. Long-term users, of which we have only recorded a few so far, seem to be as shaggy as sheep.

In the last ten years, I’ve been accused of a string of crimes ranging from smuggling exotic birds to administering drugs to a minor. While most of these are fabrications, I’ve become the involuntary face of sirdine fever. Admittedly, I am one of the people whose story is most closely tied to this substance, and I can’t deny a certain amount of culpability in the parrot-meat-eating epidemic currently sweeping Prague. Believe me, I’ve been punched in the face for it more than once. I tried sirdine for the first time in 2014 and the last time in 2023.

Despite what people say about me though, I’ve never made a penny on parrot meat. Nor have I ever served it to a minor, even though I am responsible for the death of a young person. So, the purpose of this story is not to clear my name but rather to snitch on the others. There were three other people besides me at the onset of the sirdine mania: a passionate biologist from Jižní Město, a small-town drug dealer and my ex-girlfriend. One of them is dead and the other two can kiss my ass.

 

*

2014

THURSDAY EVENING: IN THE GLOW OF THE FLASHLIGHTS, I FEEL AS BEAUTIFUL AS A POP STAR

 

It’s probably a funny thing to say but my hometown was destroyed by cyclists. I live in an ugly, overgrown village cut in half by the busiest cycle path in Central Bohemia. The locals have long since given up the fight against the sporting invasion: either they saddled up bikes of their own or they’ve become accustomed to the onslaught of the helmeted clowns as one gets used to unstoppable internal bleeding.

If someone had bothered to write a guide to our city, this is what the first page would say:

The traditional drink is Gatorade.

Traditional attire is a bicycle jersey.

Every Saturday is a public holiday.

The main square is a bicycle path.

But the cycle path is actually more than just a square. It’s the centre, the equator, the aorta. Just as people living on the shore tie their rituals to the waves of the sea, we let the cycle path guide us through all phases of life: children learn to skate here, we come here to drink, agreements between neighbours are made here, amateur troupes play dirty French comedies here, the three kings come through here as do the stallholders, their backpacks brimming with ugly pottery. In the summer, the hot asphalt is churned up by the hooves of tired horses, who have to bring the crown jewels from Prague to the nearby castle again and again every year. The cycle path is simply everything to us.

They poured the asphalt along the river sometime after the flood in 2002. Back then, a lot of cash floated our way on the surging waters. The great flood is one of my very first memories: I’m standing on the footbridge with housewares floating below me. It’s like a wild fashion show, only instead of models, it’s kitchens and washing machines that are on display. We lived on a hill, so ever since then, I’ve secretly thought that natural disasters can also have a funny side.

The footbridge was eventually torn down by the water and the city then had a new one built for millions of crowns, which it managed to salvage from the muddy banks after the flood. This new footbridge is even visible from the neighbouring town: it’s a celebration of survival, of a new identity for the town, of a bright tomorrow full of prosecco and border collies. To make it clear that this huge footbridge is still for pedestrians only, they’ve hammered in one ugly spike about half a metre high on both ends as a barrier. These spikes have long been the ugliest statues far and wide.

The city managed to transcend their ugliness only years later: every village in the region (meaning on the cycle path) was asked to choose a chess piece to represent it. In a unanimous internet poll, the citizens of our town chose a pawn and had one two-metre tall piece cast, proudly erecting it next to the cycle path. Sometimes I don’t even have to make fun of my hometown, it embarrasses itself enough on its own.

The latest statue-turned-insult would be added to the small-town skyline in 2022: a large marble thermometer that the town hall will unveil to celebrate the fact that there’s no other place in the country where it gets as sweltering hot as here. Kudos to us.

But now it’s September 2014, long before the pawn and the thermometer, and I’m leaning against that shiny spike at the end of the footbridge, staring into the darkness of the cycle path. Julie stands by the railing and reaches down. We’re gonna get our asses kicked today. Where else but on the cycle path.

We know this because Julie got a text this morning that said: Come to the rest area at midnight.

Rest areas are the concrete benches scattered along the banks of the cycle path. They’re terribly uncomfortable, convenient for buckling up inline skates or allowing teenagers to sit on their backs and drink in peace.

The problem is that there are about fifteen of them along the entire length of the cycle path, and we don’t know where to go if we want to get our heads kicked in.

I don’t see anybody, Julie reports, I think they’re farther up. And so we head upriver. Going upstream is always like going uphill, so the journey seems endless. What’s that on your shoe? Julie asks me, annoyed. I stepped on a broken bottle of Jelzin somewhere, I tell her. Only the stupid and pregnant drink that, she says wisely, and we walk on in silence.

It’s already midnight but no real darkness has descended tonight, the sky merely fading into irregular patches, as if someone had spilled bleach on it. All of a sudden, a strong wind rises against us. It’s the kind of wind that feels like it’s coming from far away. It tears the landscape to pieces, cuts distances, whips trees standing far away into our eyes and renders what lies before us almost invisible.
That’s probably why at first, we scarcely notice the illuminated forearms that suddenly come into view. A strange formation is waiting for us: six girls, each pointing a bright light toward us, shining next to their mobile phone cameras. They’re filming us. When my eyes adjust, I realise that there are actually seven of them: but one of them has both forearms hidden in the dark. It gives her a special sense of importance – she doesn’t have to lift a finger, she has people to do it for her.

As Julie and I near the rest stop the exotic wind tangling our hair, the glowing mobile phones resemble a bustling concert hall. The seven-headed crowd greets us with an excited hush. They’re waiting. If it was just me I’d probably feel embarrassed. I don’t like it when someone has to wait for me, even if it’s an enemy. But Julie doesn’t let stuff like that bother her: she knows we’re the headline act tonight and they never hit the stage before midnight. I follow her lead and her confidence is contagious: in the light of the flashlights, I feel as beautiful as a popstar. So not just a bitch but a dumb one too, says the girl with her hands in the dark, breaking the silence, ruining my blissful moment. It’s Sasha.

I know this much about her: we used to be quite close. She’s a few years younger than me but our mothers were friends. Her family lived in a big house with a dog and a dirty-rich father who worked somewhere in the Emirates and was gone all the time. Sasha used to love swimming – she was convinced she had a unique bond with water that no one else could match. She was annoying about it, and no one dared mention they liked swimming in front of her because it pissed her off. It was all so long ago though, at a time when we couldn’t even decide who to talk to, and so we pretend it didn’t happen and that we don’t remember each other at all. Sasha is as beautiful as a Bratz doll now, and until tonight I thought she was pretty nice too. I also remember her throwing up on the ski lift on a school trip and know that she’s dating some guy who must be a lot older because someone told me they saw him picking Sasha up in his car outside the school.

Sasha tells Julie that she’s a stupid bitch, and then her right hook flies out of the darkness landing a solid punch on Julie’s nose. I’m pretty shocked but then I remember we’re being filmed. I definitely don’t want to be immortalised just standing there looking dumb. While I’m trying to fight, the thought of what if I’m fighting on the wrong side gnaws at me. I actually hardly know Julie at all, and frankly, she’s kind of strange. But I don’t have much time to think about that. Besides, these girls are at an advantage. After all, standing up for the underdog is always the right thing to do, no matter who’s in the right. Meanwhile, Julie’s tearing Sasha apart. Maybe she can handle the power play on her own.

My first real fight takes an impossibly long time, about five hours actually but I’m enjoying it a lot. We’re fighting, running around the rest areas as it slowly starts to get light out. The sun hits the concrete, the wind dies down. We breathe deeply and push each other a little more gently. A couple of girls are already lying on the ground, leaning on their elbows and watching us. No one’s filming anymore – the evidence has already been collected – but we’re not ready to call it a night and go home just yet. My shin is scraped, and my knee feels shattered. Blood trickles down my leg, tickling me like a tiny mouse scurrying along my skin.

The battle is only over when a shadow looms on the horizon. The shadow’s name is Zdeněk and he’s the father of a boy we call Pelican, I won’t tell you why. He rolls up to us on his skates, waving with his gloved hand and shaking with a deep throaty laugh. What do you think your parents will make of you staying out all night?

We greet each other politely, pick ourselves up, I cover my bleeding leg and we head home to our own Zdeněks. That’s what most dads are like here in town – cycling jerseys, voices as soft as terry towels and hands raised only for fun. Come and get a slap, Zdeněk always told Pelican when his son was being cheeky, a half-moon of a smile stretching across his face as he spoke. Zdeněk had children early – all three of them were already born by the time he was twenty-five. It was the father-mule who pulled Pelican behind him in a bicycle stroller until his son was old enough to ride his own bike. Pelican’s mother, concerned, but ultimately willing to be persuaded into anything, took care of her child for the remaining five days when the father-mule was cooped up in his Prague office, his ringing laughter making the levers of coffee machines and the beer taps of Prague pubs quiver.

My parents were always different in this respect, keeping a firm united front against us kids. I slip quietly into the hallway, hungry, but I can’t stop to check the fridge because my mother can hear the fridge door rubber smack even in her deepest sleep and would immediately rush in to guard its contents. My parents don’t talk to anyone in town and haven’t for a few years now, and they don’t really talk to us, their kids, either. At family parties, Mum sits with her knees under her chin like a teenager and rolls her eyes.

 

*

 

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON: JULIE IS PARANOID

 

The first time I talked to Julie was the day before the fight on the cycle path. We meet pretty romantically: at a petrol station.

I mean, not that we didn’t know about each other until then but in a small town it’s rather random who you end up talking to and who you ignore. With most people, you have a rough idea of who they are, where they live, or who they belong to, but you also can’t say Hello everyone all the time.

It makes sense to save the niceties for older people and ignore children and teenagers, unless they’re friends. And Julie certainly wasn’t my friend at the start of September 2014.

They recently added a „stop and relax“ zone to the petrol station on the edge of our shitty town, which means there’s a nice wooden bench with a table outside and they sell hot dogs with chili sauce inside. I know, it sounds awful, but for us it’s absolutely the perfect place. It’s not expensive like the cafes on the main street or the pizza places, your parents can’t run into you here with a cigarette in your mouth like they can by the river, and no one bothers you like they do at the train station.

Julie’s perched on the sink like a spider looking straight at me as I come out of the toilet cubicle. She runs her eyes from my head to the tips of my toes, the walls and floor still rumbling with the flush, and says:

I’ve never met a hot girl in my life who didn’t have digestive issues.

How can someone think of saying something like that? But I’m flattered. Listen, you’ve got friends here, Julie continues. I nod proudly, they’re outside, mostly from Prague. They came because I’m grounded for the last day. I’m grounded but I can still walk my dog (it’s under the table outside), so I can also eat hot dogs with chilli sauce at the stop and relax and then have digestive issues, like every hot girl.

Someone’s after me, you know. I need protecting, Julie tells me, and I only just now notice that, as well as looking pretty strange crouched on the sink like that, she’s also dressed like a freak: she’s wearing a sporty windbreaker with a black and red corset underneath, her hair is tangled with thin coloured elastic bands. You should tell the girls outside as well, I suggest. Not that they’d know what to do, but I don’t want to have to explain the whole thing to them.

Julie’s a woodman. No, that’s not her last name, it means she lives in the apartment building up by the woods. I don’t know if all the woodmen are related to each other or not, that’s just what they’re called. I think the apartments were originally built for employees of the Forest Service or some such organisation. Anyway, the woodmen came to town long before the flood, long before the cycle path, long before prospective young couples with mortgages like my parents or Pelican’s dad. Julie’s older sister used to train me at the Sokol gym and knew all the old-timers. On the way home from the gym, she’d close the windows of the half-decayed houses on Main Street, which, of course, aren’t there anymore, and say, “Blimey, Vohejl, they’ll burgle him again. The poor bloke always gets so hammered he can’t find the door, so they have to open a window for him.”

Someone’s after me, Julie repeats obediently to the girls outside, now sitting with her knee under her chin and a cigarette glowing in her shaking hand. Unfortunately, one of us lets out a laugh, but it’s so short it sounds more like a grunt.

Well, how do you know, we ask Julie, and she says it’s not about what’s happening to you, nothing much is happening, it’s more like you have a plus one with you and you don’t know who it is. She explains that in the morning at school you might notice that somebody’s been sitting in your seat, sometimes an anonymous number calls you, you pick up the phone and nobody speaks.

Julie looks around the parking lot, and we do too. We don’t see anybody. When I leave, she asks us, can you look to see if anyone’s following me? We look after her carefully in complete silence, so that we can say in good conscience that she’s really fucked up. And then change the subject to something more fun.

But we can’t let it go. You have to understand: this is 2014. Millennials are just experiencing all the things they’ll be talking about on Radio Wave in a few years.

Mental health hasn’t been invented yet. Back then, we didn’t refer to anyone as being „super-ADHD“ when they were bored, or say that we were „feeling OCD“ when we were bothered by clutter. We didn’t know much about any diagnoses, and the few we did know about, we were scared of. I can’t remember who dared to say Julie was paranoid for the first time back then. But for us, it meant two things: one, she could be dangerous, and two, she got it from smoking weed.

 

Translated by Alžběta Belánová