As some of you know, I made a Heroic Vow last weekend.

And, after a cinematic epiphany, and an unfortunate encounter with several chugged beers and a Ponytail Palm, I set out to fulfill it.

Which is how I ended up at Century.

Which is how I met DJ StrangeLove.

Which is how everything changed forever.

He wasn’t more than five feet tall. His features were boyish and round, his complexion ruddy, his hair greasy, his nose oversized and flat. His body seemed lumpy, and his shirt-and-tie outfit was blandly uniform.

He was, simply put, one of the most average-looking men I’d ever seen.

It was as though an unsuspecting Hobbit had wandered in from The Shire, and, on his way, accidentally crashed an office Christmas Party.

But, amongst our group of friends, he’d achieved a status nothing short of legendary. He was a mythical figure, a combination of Don Juan, Paul Bunyan and Obi-Wan Kenobi. And, indeed, when dealing with any sort of examination of DJ StrangeLove, the stories had been told and retold so many times, that it had become impossible to differentiate truth from fiction.

The only hard facts I had on him were as follows:

Friendless throughout high school, he’d been a virgin until almost 25. Then, using a mysterious system of his own devising, he’d suddenly become Vancouver’s very own Casanova, a title he held undisputed until his abrupt and equally mysterious retirement six months ago.

Beyond that, information gets pretty spotty.

There were rumours of a triple-digit body-count, of him regularly having four girlfriends simultaneously, being involved in dozens of threesomes, and one particularly infamous weekend where he’d been carnal with every chorus girl in an Arts Club show. A friend had once told me, with a completely straight face, that DJ StrangeLove had slept with half the population of a small northern town.

He was a man’s man.

A ladies’ man.

A legend.

And, what’s worse, my friends believed it. I felt sorry for them; eventually they’d have to accept that he was nothing more than a gifted liar with a flair for the dramatic.

Leon and I had arrived only twenty minutes earlier, running into him completely by accident, as he happened to turn around and exclaim, to no one in particular:

“Goddammit! I hate turning down pussy!”

Obi-Wan Kenobi he was not.

We introduced ourselves, Leon exclaiming, in the throes of complete hero-worship:

“My buddy Ian here could totally use your help!”

DJ StrangeLove chuckled, clapping Leon on the shoulder.

“Hey, now. You know I’m retired.”

Humiliated, I excused myself to the bar.

And, it was then, as I pushed my way through the crowd, that I saw her:

She was easily the best-looking girl in the room: brown hair, body plucked from the pages of Maxim Magazine, thighs barely covered by a slim, high-cut dress.

I tried approaching her twice that night.

But, each time, rather than saying anything, I’d abruptly chicken out, and retreat to the bar, where I’d spend the next ten minutes quietly loathing myself.

Later, I was in the bathroom, fuming, when I heard a voice.

“Well, that was pathetic.”

It was DJ StrangeLove.

I laughed, nervously, and made a mental note to hate him for the rest of my life.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

He stepped up to the urinal beside me.

“Picking up girls is like the lottery, mate. You can’t win if you don’t play.”

Urinal Conversation always makes me uncomfortable.

Some people are perfectly happy to just chatter away, junk in hand, about the Canucks, or the Gateway Project, or their opinions on troop deployment in Gaza. Not me. So, having a short, ruddy man attempt to give me a Pep-Talk while standing at the cistern was not how I’d planned to spend my evening.

“Those cats out there,” he remarked, “they’re like the Infantry grunts at Normandy; throwing themselves, wave after wave at the shore, hoping one of ‘em’ll get through. You’ve got to be cool. Quiet. Like a Sniper. These kids are just firing blind. You’ve got to go for the Head-Shot.”

This was turning into the longest piss of my life.

“Well, it can’t be that hard,” I replied, “you just have to be yourself, right?”

He gave a derisive snort, and zipped up.

“Fuck, no. Being yourself isn’t enough. In order to succeed, you’ve gotta be your best self.”

“I am.”

“Look at you. You don’t even have the discipline to shave daily.”

“I can’t,” I insisted, “I have very sensitive skin.”

Eyes fierce, he clapped a hand on my shoulder.

This was monumentally uncomfortable, considering I was still holding my cock in my other hand.

“Look,” he said, “what kind of women you into? I’m pretty sure the answer’s not: ‘average’. You want to meet sexy, attractive, interesting women? You’ve got to be sexy, attractive, and interesting yourself.”

“Well, that sounds like a lot of work.”

“Jesus,” he snorted, “you need more help than I thought.”

“I don’t need your help,” I jeered, “besides, you’re retired.”

He didn’t respond. Merely gave me a condescending pat on the ass, and returned to the dance floor, flailing his arms like some pompous, frumpy windmill.

“Be your best self.”

What a bunch of Tony Robbins bullshit.

By one AM, I’d had enough.

Other than Leon and DJ StrangeLove, I hadn’t talked to a soul all night. I was tired and disgusted with myself, and I just wanted to go home.

As the three of us headed to the exit, I saw her for the last time:

The woman in the high-cut dress.

Walking our way, laughing, chatting with a friend.

I swallowed. If I was ever going to say anything, it had to be now.

Unfortunately, I never got the chance.

“What? You’re leaving?” she exclaimed.

My heart soared until I realized she was talking to DJ StrangeLove.

“Yeah,” he replied, shoving her playfully, “I gotta check out, woman.”

My head swam. How did she even know him? I hadn’t seen them exchange so much as a glance all evening.

Then, she gently pulled her hips against his, and, brushing her lips against his ear, whispered something that looked a lot like:

“Am I ever going to see you again?”

DJ StrangeLove smiled, pulled out his cell-phone, and, without a word, passed it to the girl, who eagerly punched in her number.

“I’m Alison,” she shouted.

“Cool, man,” he replied, “let’s totally hang out this week. There’s a sweet musician’s showcase I want to check out, so maybe I’ll give you a shout.”

Then, walking away, he glanced over his shoulder, and said, with a wry smile:

“You know. If you’re lucky.”

And, with one last playful shove, he vanished down the stairs.

Jesus Christ, I thought.

Head-shot.

Suddenly, I was a convert. I was after him, babbling like an idiot; about ex-girlfriends and Ponytail Palms, and the 23 Average, and women in high-cut dresses, and my fears of dying alone. To this day, I’m not sure how DJ StrangeLove made sense of my idiotic ramblings, but they must have triggered something within him, because suddenly, he turned to me and said:

“Sunday. 10:00. The Media Club.”

“10:00? Like, PM?”

“Yes.”

“But I have work the next day.”

“Well, in that case, maybe, you could build a castle.”

“What?”

I was mystified.

“You know, with all the sand from your vagina.”

He flipped open his phone, selected Alison’s number, and hit “Delete”.

Goddammit!” he exclaimed, “I hate turning down pussy.”

Then, he was gone.

And that was the prelude to the most terrifying night of my life.