The Jawbone of an Ass
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Monday Night Football -opening night- is something I've been looking forward to for six months. But staring up at the large television screen, I suddenly realize I have no idea who is playing.
And like a ship coming in from a midnight horizon, I slowly realize Barbarossa is talking to me.
"... I mean it's your third divorce right?" he shrugs in a saccharin optimism. "It's just like riding a bike."
We are regulars here. I even have a drink named after me. But from somewhere deep behind the warm, invisible shield provided by my third or fourth "el LOBO" (a Fuzzy Navel with a miniature umbrella), I concede that there are far too many witnesses present to kill Barbarossa; despite the chemically-exaggerated comfort level and nigh irresistible appeal to irony, "Happy Hour" lacks the sadistic discretion required for murder.
-And it's hard to kill a man with a jukebox, napkins, and neon beer signs frankly ... it would be a lot easier, for instance, if we were at Sears in the Craftsman tools section.
Tall and lanky, Barbarossa's skinny arm lands across my back, grabs my opposite tricep and pulls me in for a sympathetic hug. Balancing haphazardly on the barstool, my eyes bulge in sobering panic.
"Stop walking around so ... so wounded," he slurs in sincere sympathy. "Don't think of them as marriages. Think of them as leases. You know, serial monogamies."
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"For some of us maybe," I says, peeling his spider-like arm off. Scowling thoughtfully, the urge to drive ample fistfuls of spent miniature umbrellas repeatedly through his eyes and deeply into his brain melts away; instead I find myself reeling in Barbarossa's unprecedented nugget of dark philosophical wisdom -an observation so devoid and pure of subjectivity, it borderlined math.
Barbarossa wobbles visibly. "That's the spirit," he agrees apropos of nothing I can readily discern. Then, after perhaps suffering a fleeting glimpse of self-awareness, he sits more upright, raising his drink in an courage-inspiring toast to me.
"So what are you going to do first?"
Absently, halfheartedly colliding my drink into his beer mug, I weigh this murky prospect carefully too.
"Everything," I decide.
"Seriously?" he says in disbelief. "Man, it's already like nine thirty. How about pinball?"
[LOBO]
Monday Night Football -opening night- is something I've been looking forward to for six months. But staring up at the large television screen, I suddenly realize I have no idea who is playing.
And like a ship coming in from a midnight horizon, I slowly realize Barbarossa is talking to me.
"... I mean it's your third divorce right?" he shrugs in a saccharin optimism. "It's just like riding a bike."
We are regulars here. I even have a drink named after me. But from somewhere deep behind the warm, invisible shield provided by my third or fourth "el LOBO" (a Fuzzy Navel with a miniature umbrella), I concede that there are far too many witnesses present to kill Barbarossa; despite the chemically-exaggerated comfort level and nigh irresistible appeal to irony, "Happy Hour" lacks the sadistic discretion required for murder.
-And it's hard to kill a man with a jukebox, napkins, and neon beer signs frankly ... it would be a lot easier, for instance, if we were at Sears in the Craftsman tools section.
Tall and lanky, Barbarossa's skinny arm lands across my back, grabs my opposite tricep and pulls me in for a sympathetic hug. Balancing haphazardly on the barstool, my eyes bulge in sobering panic.
"Stop walking around so ... so wounded," he slurs in sincere sympathy. "Don't think of them as marriages. Think of them as leases. You know, serial monogamies."
.jpg)
Barbarossa wobbles visibly. "That's the spirit," he agrees apropos of nothing I can readily discern. Then, after perhaps suffering a fleeting glimpse of self-awareness, he sits more upright, raising his drink in an courage-inspiring toast to me.
"So what are you going to do first?"
Absently, halfheartedly colliding my drink into his beer mug, I weigh this murky prospect carefully too.
"Everything," I decide.
"Seriously?" he says in disbelief. "Man, it's already like nine thirty. How about pinball?"
Comments
It's kinda creepy actually.