You go to my head

We went to a club yesterday and I tried my first flaming lamborghini.

Having visited Propaganda - one of the many clubs along the Wudaokou stretch - the week before, the boys were eager to return for the free drinks and accompanying flames. So after a post-finals KTV session, we ambled over, pretending not to understand a word of Chinese. Free entry for foreign students, apparently. 

XL ordered four. I sat, elbows propped on the bartop, and watched the bartender prepare the drinks - layer by layer, as gently as he could. Four layers in all. (Was wondering why he didn't use a spoon. Makes it easier, right?) Then separately, he filled four shot glasses with curacao before handing each of us a straw.

He lit the drink and the flames blazed a surreal blue. Once the shot of curacao was emptied, we inhaled the contents in a jiffy. T'was such a pretty drink, and gone so fast too. Pity, pity. I only remember the lingering sweetness of Bailey's Irish Cream and a happy, comfortable warmth settling in my stomach.

Then it all went to my head, in a matter of minutes. I could almost feel the fumes seeping into my brain and proceeding to lift it up like helium balloons. And I remember half-wailing about being a snail murderer. All those crushed crispy shells.