Aggravation
There was never a drink
so aptly named so much so
I considered handing them
out free to all the
assholes
I was showing the door to
but decided it was a waste
of
bar scotch and
Kahlua.
The latest candidate for a
freebie
was sitting at the
bar,
alternately whistling
off-key
and lecturing the world in
general
as he decided who next to
annoy.
“Hey Chief!” he bellows, showing
a decision had been
made,
the next pissed person would
be me.
Failing to attract
attention
with that clever opening
gambit,
he tries the old standby
routine:
tapping a quarter on the bar
top as
loud as he can. When that fails,
he resorts to the old
fashioned
attention grabber of the
ages,
yelling, “What’s it take to
get
service in this bar?” I
reply,
“Try self-immolation. I go for that.
Here’s the lighter fluid and
a book
of matches. Go for it. I’ll give you
to the count of ten to be
either on fire
or gone. Starting now. One, two….”
He looked at me as if he
couldn’t
decide if I was serious or
crazy.
I assured him I was a lot of
both
by taking the fluid from his
hand
squirting some in a glass
ashtray
and striking a
match.
Silk
Panties
When I was working
lounges
a lot tackier and a lot
more
expensive than this bar that
I was
doing time in, I used to
get
girls like her tossed on
general
principles rather than take
the ten per
cent she and her friends gave
out
for not noticing what was
coming
down. Maybe she still
thought
all the men peed their pants
just
thinking about fucking her
,though
once you decided that
wouldn’t happen
in this lifetime or another,
she was
just another aging bimbo with
big tits.
She wasn’t used to not
getting respect
from bartenders, as if we
were all
supposed to just kneel down
and
worship at her feet just
thinking
about the possibility of
sniffing
her silk panties. I felt
then, and still
do now, there are things in
life
other than money and you
didn’t have to
debase yourself the way she
routinely did,
to get it. For all I knew, she might
be wandering around that bar
yet,
waiting to be
served.
Monster
Shot
He would have been
a
natural for the role
of
George in Of Mice and
Men
if he could have
shrunk
nine inches and
mastered
one or two
polysyllabic
words.
I suspected even his
mother
would not have
allowed
him to leave the
house
with clothes he
had
apparently outgrown
years
ago unless she were
some
kind of itinerant
mad
scientist with a
super
fast acting growth
hormone
and a particularly
sick
sense of
humor.
He had mastered
Beer,
the word and the
concept
but not much
else.
I wondered if it
was
common practice where
he
came from to devour the
glass
and ,whatever else he
fancied,
when he was done with
Beer.
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