February 13, 2013
I need to go to the airport, I have to pick up my son. He might not be there though, he might be in jail. In Thailand"
"ok..." she replied, batting her big doe eyes slightly confused, but maybe intrigued.
He ran his fingers over his skull, Dirty claws lost in a tangle of greasy grey and yellow hair. He took a swig of beer.
"if he's there we'll need to go into town to a whore house."
"okay..." She repeated
"then we need to come back here"
"okay..." kind of like a parrot that only ever learned one word but desperately wanted to feel part of the conversation.
"well, I need to go to the whore house either way, but if hes in jail in
Thialand I'll have to make some phone calls. I'll pay you 50$ an hour if you drive me."
"okay... " she mulled over his words as he got up, rubbed is tough old hands over 3 days of stubble, pulled up dirty old jeans and walked to the door. He disappeared onto the walk with a smoke between his lips.
"So should I do it?" she asked, blinking away like a child seeing magic tricks for the first time.
Myself, the bartender, a bouncer and a customer who happened to be within earshot responded with a resounding "no!"
"why?"
"because you don't want to spend the last moments of you short young life stuffed in the trunk of your own car smelling like whore house and Budweiser" someone said.
"oh" blink.
Blink.
Blink
"you don't think I should trust him?"
I rubbed my eyes while the rest if the bar chorused "No!!"
The problem solved itself when our resident whore monger never returned from his smoke. Not only did our waitress not get her $50 per hour, he stiffed her for 2 drinks.
The waitress had moved on and I hadn't seen the old dirtbag in a while. Strangely they both turned up tonight. He got thrown out for being too drunk and she lost her wallet.
"ok..." she replied, batting her big doe eyes slightly confused, but maybe intrigued.
He ran his fingers over his skull, Dirty claws lost in a tangle of greasy grey and yellow hair. He took a swig of beer.
"if he's there we'll need to go into town to a whore house."
"okay..." She repeated
"then we need to come back here"
"okay..." kind of like a parrot that only ever learned one word but desperately wanted to feel part of the conversation.
"well, I need to go to the whore house either way, but if hes in jail in
Thialand I'll have to make some phone calls. I'll pay you 50$ an hour if you drive me."
"okay... " she mulled over his words as he got up, rubbed is tough old hands over 3 days of stubble, pulled up dirty old jeans and walked to the door. He disappeared onto the walk with a smoke between his lips.
"So should I do it?" she asked, blinking away like a child seeing magic tricks for the first time.
Myself, the bartender, a bouncer and a customer who happened to be within earshot responded with a resounding "no!"
"why?"
"because you don't want to spend the last moments of you short young life stuffed in the trunk of your own car smelling like whore house and Budweiser" someone said.
"oh" blink.
Blink.
Blink
"you don't think I should trust him?"
I rubbed my eyes while the rest if the bar chorused "No!!"
The problem solved itself when our resident whore monger never returned from his smoke. Not only did our waitress not get her $50 per hour, he stiffed her for 2 drinks.
The waitress had moved on and I hadn't seen the old dirtbag in a while. Strangely they both turned up tonight. He got thrown out for being too drunk and she lost her wallet.
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