Archive for January, 2014

Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms

January 14, 2014

If you live in a place like Australia or Brazil, it would be hard to imagine it being colder than inside a freezer with wind and snow.  Not a soul stirred outside a small restaurant five miles west of the United Center on Madison Street in Chicago.  It was the sort of night when police officers are directed to pick up homeless and dump them off at centers designated for warming during extreme cold.

The owner of the small bar washed dishes, toilets, tables and salt off the hardwood floors that was tracked in by patrons alone.  The Chicago Blackhawks were playing the San Jose Sharks at the United Center just a few miles away.  A man with a voice best fit for opera, sang the national anthem of the United States.  Over weight, mustachioed buffoons stuffed into hockey jerseys like casing around sausage of white, black or red colors with a the profile of a Semitic looking indigenous American Indian plastered across their chests, cheered wildly for a song that they really didn’t like or revere all that much.  The proprietor leaned on his mop and watched the display of temporary patriotism prior to the start of the game and wondered how many of the “fans” actually understood the game of ice hockey.  As the owner pondered something that could not be quantified, a neighborhood patron entered the establishment.  There he stood with long flowing hair a la Fabio and a deeply assertive voice.

“I take it you have the game on…”

“If you want me to turn on the Bachelor, I could do that for you…”

“Quite droll…  Fix me a Motherfucker post haste, my good man.”

A Motherfucker is composed of Gin, Rum, vodka, triple sec, Galliano, Hennessey and a splash of whatever cola you have available.  The former marine who went by the biblical name Matthew downed two Motherfuckers before two other patrons entered the bar.  The pair who soon entered the bar was already liquored up and only entered the bar because they saw humans watching a television screen together in front of a wide array of liquor.  They were old, white, rich, drunk and obnoxious.  The bartender, floor washer braced for idiocy as he asked what it was that they wanted to drink.

“A really good bourbon that would remind a man of a warm day at the Kentucky derby where debutants team up waiting to be tapped like kegs.  Yes a bourbon for me and whatever beer my accomplice might want.”

The accomplice rattle off a slew of obscure microbrews that most people never heard of and then settled for a Harp.  The bourbon drinker appeared to be a bloated Richard Gere with money.  He spilled a little of his bourbon on his white shirt and then went on to tell the other two men how he bought the suit jacket in Bermuda while on vacation with the wife of a close friend.

“Do you have a Lear Jet?  Have you ever been to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun?”  Asked the barman.

“Only an old fart would refer to a song written by a young woman who is now in her seventies.”

“Your only as old as you allow yourself to feel, my good man.”

“Fuck both of you and this long haired pussy motherfucker right here.  Only a faggot wears his hair that fucking long, hoping to get butt plugged by a priest or a Penn State football coach…”

Mathew took a look at the thin man dressed as though he had escaped from a country club, raised his Motherfucker to his lips and then posed a question.

“What kind of a J. Crew looking dork wears Topsiders with no socks on a day when it’s colder here than in Alaska.  You wanna make fun of my hair?  I can still comb and grow my own.  In fact I’m willing to donate the hair off my nut sack so that a fuck stick like you can grow a little on top of their head…  Calm down Sally before you get hurt.  I’ve fucked tougher guys than you in prison when I had nothing to do.  I am a Marine and have fought to keep this country free for people like you.  Enjoy your first drinking experience and fuck yourself.”

Everyone but the longhaired Marine laughed.  The mince man with beer muscles decided to accost the longhaired man because he was indeed jealous that a nearly middle-aged man could wear his hair like a debutante.  Mathew covered his drink with a bar napkin and went out to the sidewalk to have a cigarette.  Within a minute, the other two men walked out to the sidewalk to have cigars.  The Richard Gere-esqe man bragged about a one night stand with a young woman that he had landed the night before and how he had referred to something from the 1980s and went on to learn that she was born in 1991.  The country clubber began to sob about his recent divorce and how he missed his kids.  Matthew flicked his cigarette into the street and went back in to watch the hockey game.  Chicago was up 2-1 in the third period.  Matthew told the barkeep how good the Blackhawks were and how they were going to go on and win another Stanley Cup this year.  The bartender with the Detroit Red Wing tattoo on his left arm that was visible listened and politely disagreed.

“Corey Crawford is playing about as good as Joan Crawford.  I will bet you $20.00 that he let’s in a goal to tie and they lose in OT…”

Matthew slammed down a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.  Not more than a minute later, San Jose scored a goal to tie the game.  Matthew ordered another Motherfucker.  Richard Gere and the country clubber returned from the cold smelling of cigars.  The man with Topsiders playfully punched Matthew’s shoulder, as he was about to take a sip of his Motherfucker.  The Motherfucker spilled on Matthew’s shirt.  He stood and grabbed the shirt of the thin man.  The manager reached over the bar and pushed both men away from each other.  The man with a sweater draped over his shoulders like a Princeton co-ed laughed in the face of the longhaired military man.  It only serves to stoke the flames of anger in a man who angered easily.

“I like blindly patriotic fucks like you…  You sign up to die for causes that don’t even exist.  You cry during Chevy truck commercials and love the president because he’s the commander-and-chief.  Never mind that he was born in Kenya.”

Matthew took out a small revolver and set it on the bar.  The sweater-clad man pushed Matthew off of his barstool and laughed.  Matthew grabbed his gun, pressed it to the foot of the offender and discharged his weapon.  The bullet went through the foot of the thin man, bounced off of the floor and lodged in the ceiling of the establishment.  The thin man howled in pain and then laughed so hard that he urinated in his pants.  Richard Gere slapped down a $100.00 and told the barman to keep the change.  He didn’t want any part of a police inquiry that could last all night.  Matthew was suddenly scared for what he did but remained stoic.  He apologized to the barkeeper for a sudden lapse of sane judgment but justified the act by stating that the victim was an asshole.  The victim agreed that he was an asshole and asked for a cab to be called.

“I’m a dick.  I know it.  My wife would agree with me.  I’m just going to take myself to the hospital and claim that some punk with a hood on shot me when I wouldn’t give him any money for panhandling…  Oh shit.  The Blackhawks did lose the game.  Looks like longhairs lost twenty bucks.”

“Do you want me to shoot your other fucking foot?”

“No…  How bout a shot of tequila before the cab comes and it’s on me…  Bartender, pour yourself one.”

The three men had a shot of tequila and then Matthew helped the thin divorced man with a sweater draped over his shoulders, no socks and a hole in his foot get into a cab.  Matthew accompanied the man to the emergency room where they both agreed it was a young guy with a hood on who shot the thin man in the foot.  The desk clerk, a black woman asked for a description of the offender.  Both white men looked at one another before answering.  Matthew decided to answer.

“It would be racist of me to say that the offender was of a particular race consistent with this sort of crime, ma’am”

The black woman held her pen to her lips and squinted while listening to Matthew.  She surmised that the crime was a drunken mistake.  She posed a question.

“Do you want to admit to shooting this man in the foot or should I just wait for the police to ask you?”

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