don't bomb when you're the bomb

What is obvious to me at this point in time is that i face almostcertain death from the Finnish Mob (no pun intended). The drunkenness of the night has finally wornoff, and i started remembering details that warrented me writing this out in full. So. In narrative form.
Last week I went with my friend Tom, who is the most affable andknowledgeable British dandy you could hope for, to a dinner his girlfriend Liz was hosting for her work. She is, currently, a junior marketing analyst for Forbes Magazine; remember Steve Forbes, the dork that ran for president (twice), under the guise of a "flat tax", and then bowed out (twice) only to make fun of himself by appearing on SNL as ... himself? Well, these people all have Steve on their speed-dials, they all wear tailored suits and trendy Italian eyewear, and they all get drink like fish when the bell rings.
We started at a pub, something slightly posh but still loud and dark, and i started drinking Guiness (on the tab, of course) becauseeven though i usually drink bitters, i hadn't eaten in a while (coupledays, actually). I earned a bit of respect from the American editorfor drinking the Guiness as fast as a normal beer, which goes to showyou how little Americans know about drinking in the first place. Then i started hitting on the Finnish editor's daughter (why he brought her, i have no idea, maybe he uses it to test for assholes), which was met with quite a few looks askance, and Tom pulling me aside, telling me "You tosser, she's pledged to Finnish royalty!" After 3 rounds (3?), we stumbled over to Brick Lane, which is this street that Brits go to if they want to feel colonial again; it's just rows of Indian restaurants, and the streets are full of Indian guys either trying to sell you hash or get you to come in their restaurants. You actually bargain with them outside before you come in, and typically you can get a couple nice bottles of wine and a 10%discount out of the deal before you step into the restaurant.
So asone of the junior executives is argueing his way into a bottle of Scotch, I'm outside fucking with the Finnish editor (who was, by theway, named "Finn"), in some ridiculous attempt to win over the dad.He's trying to ignore me, but he's also a bit dusted, so when herealizes i'm cooler than he is he humors me. Then he trips on thestreet. We get inside, and i by this time have turned the charm on to 11, cracking crude jokes and wearing tableflowers in my hair. I'm fuckingwith Finn's food, pouring onions in to his chicken korma, but he'ssort of beyond doing anything but whining, which is funny, given thathe's the spitting image of George Plimpton. Funnier because at somepoint everyone at the table starts comparing chesthair, and I with myItalian rug take the cake (Finn's chest, i remember, was bald asSavales, though i remember more some failed demands on his daughter)They goad me, because they get drunk easy, and they like theentertainment, and before i know it i'm eating a vindaloo that wouldburn a child if she sat next to it. I breathe fire on everyone, theyeat it up. At this point both the Finn and his daughter are rolling on thefloor, along with everyone else, and so i try and direct the madnesstheir way. What follows can only be described as a showstopper, but not really in the conventional, "positive" sense. I was getting readyto give Finn this great dare about putting his baby blue sweater overhis head and guessing who at the table is flicking him in the nose,but I open the sentence with, "So Finn, as one former Nazi sympathizerto another..." and the table goes silent (everyone forgets thoseFinnish were Axis), for about 3 seconds, after which Finn turns thecolor of the spicy food in my belly, and makes a grab for my face, to which to be done to torn asunder. I sprint from the table, as Finn isheld down by the burly London chief editor (Bob), and head down to the loo, which was, I remembered, quite posh, and had a nice couch i could cower on until Finn cooled off.
I was down there about 5 minutes until Tom came down, laughing hysterically, asking me what I was doing? When I said Hiding, he said "Yeah I know you're hiding, you'd better get used to it. Liz says Finn's got mob ties and you'rescrewed." I don't know if they were kidding, I haven't really talked to them since, and frankly I'm surprised I can remember this much. I remembercoming back up, and half the table gone (Scandinavian contingentincluded), the other half laughing and drunk and unrecognizable. Liz has a pretty grave face on, and she puts me in a cab while she stays and "does a bit of damage control," though, again, i have no idea ifthey're still fuckin with me. I just get in the cab, because I've got The Fear, and in my state i'm in no mood to exacerbate.