The Emigrant

It was a busy summer night at the bar called The Library. The name was a tongue-in-cheek allusion to what the regular crowd should have been doing instead of going to bars, as the place was located in the campus basement in a prestigious university. But who could blame them, really, between bouts of exam stress and hormonally induced insanity, exacerbated by the enthusiasm of youth for every joy that will backfire later. Especially on this night - when the exchange students arrived and a welcome party was called for.
"You know, we look upon this program with different eyes," explained a slightly drunk Hungarian guy at the corner table. "You would never consider staying here after the year's over, and some of you won't ever think of coming back either. For you, home and family means a lot, and this is just a nice holiday. But when you host me, or any of us, you should expect us to latch onto any opportunity to stay - we might even fuck your sister and marry her in Vegas to get naturalized. For me and the honored hosting party gathered here, this is about survival. The American dream has always been pulling yoruself by your bootstraps; the Hungarian dream, in contrast, is a successful prison break."
"You sound like a leftist," grunted one of the guests, none less intoxicated, "unless it's a joke that I don't get."
"No kidding, my friend. It's a lucky affair we're so poor: not everyone can pay the travel fares. If we were a bit richer on average, you'd find the country empty, except for criminals and politicians, which is pretty much the same thing."
"I don't get it," protested a black girl, "you have the brains. Fix things. I mean, so many Nobel Laureates..."
"Yeah... who all became laureates after they fled. Our brains, your cash, and suddenly it all works out. So, cheers to the exchange program!"
The self-appointed Socrates downed his next shot. The debate went on, but it slowly degenerated into imbecility under the influence of the rather potent liquor the locals called "pálinka" and consumed heartily. After a few minutes of bewilderment, so did everyone else. Even Jacob got rid of his inhibitions stored in his magic underwear, and by dawn, discontent was dissolved in alcoholic bliss.

One year later, they gathered again, to celebrate the reversion of their situation. This naturally called for a drink - or several, as we all know that what they really wanted wasn't to leave a backwater Eastern European country, but to leave existence altogether. This is the greatest desire any human being harbors in his breast, though very few seem to be aware of it.
Consequently, the next day the horde lined up quite a bit queasy at the airport gates for departure. Some parents were seen, thinking that they still are of some influence over their wayward offspring. A few even shed crocodile tears, perhaps weeping over the mistake they made by not entering the forbidding white-walled corridors of a clinic before the 3-month deadline. The guy with the rhetorical passions hugged his mother with a lopsided grin, thankful to his fate that he had to do this for the last time.

He felt the brisk, wet Seattle wind on his face and the rush of finally being somewhere else in his guts. As if a heavy, paralyzed extra limb had been cut off of his body, he danced about with newfound agility. The meagre allowance he got was more than his wildest dreams at home. He got a driver's license and borrowed his host's car for the occasional freeway ride. He dated a nice girl who took him into the Space Needle. He played Shadowrun Live-action RPG with a few new "friends". He got used to rain and the taste of Starbucks coffee.
And he made plans to evade the day of return. Only in his dreams did the feeling of imprisonment and dearth not fade.

Of course, the farewell party couldn't be missed either. As usual, booze gave our hero a runny tongue.
"You know, I feel almost like an American now. I can do anything, I am the best seller of myself, even if no one is buying. I have found my home among you for a while, and I already have a plan to find a home permanently. I'm taking all of you with me, even if just in spirit. The next round's on me, for everyone!"
He was cheered as a king, and thanked as a friend. Receiving two large metal trays full of shot glasses at the counter, he deftly dropped a bit of blue liquid into each glass, out of sight. Smiling with anticipation, he rejoined his table.
"You may wonder what my plan is at the end of such a great year. Well, you Yanks taught me a lot about do-it-yourself and I have decided to take matters into my own hands. I can't tell you right now, but you will soon see."
And they all took their drinks in one gulp, eyes closed and minds content.

"What the hell happened here?" A policeman asked another.
"Cyanide in their drinks...could be a cult."
"Half of them are foreigners, by the IDs. From the Balkans or something."
"Hmm. Well, let's find out what really happened."

They never did. Just as the male police in Trifles, where women's business was at hand, they had no understanding of the mind of the culprit. They hadn't even heard of the little country he came from. How could they know: the Hungarian mind always wants to be elsewhere, no matter what surrounds it.