It's all spooky at Hostiva?, the lake that lies a hike from the Haje metro. Dusk became night at some point you didn't catch because you were too preoccupied with trying to slide, but not slip, your route along the icy sidewalk to catch any last light. Barren trees surround you, and children cackle somewhere you can't see. Really. When you reach the lake, there's nothing to do but sip sva?ak with Prague's most sorrowful snowman. You're here, and, like the forgotten Frosty who was created then abandoned, you're loveless at the end of the line.

Then you bail. It's cold as shit, after all, not to mention clichéd as the plague, which you try to avoid. Besides, there's a bowling alley closer to the metro: controlled climate, beer, et cetera. At Forbes, though, the lanes are taken, so you put 100 K? into a smaller ball, full of the high hopes and low expectations that come with automated roulette. Even-money bets get you neither broker nor better off than when you entered—the 19 K? Gambrinus helps with that—so you shoot long, 20 K? on Black 28, and you win. You look at the readout of the last dozen or so winning numbers, and 28 came up four times. Rigged, you think, rigged for your pleasure.

To celebrate, you decide to knock back one more, but not at Forbes because you can only be in a herna so long before you stop feeling like a winner. You go to this nearby bar that calls itself a “Country Club.” You put away visions of tea and tees when you enter. A Haje-style country club has nothing to do with nine-irons and Izod, everything to do with barmen in blue jeans and black cowboy hats sporting holstered cap guns and Old West button-ups. It's also a bit of a cockfest, and the sound system blasts the latest cover of “Dancing Queen,” but you order a beer. It's only 20 K?, and you've got nothing better to do, seeing as how you're loveless at the end of the line.

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