By Mark S. Kourge.
Still flashing lights as the last band, Phantom Whore, smashes through the last chords of a song that come sunlight no one will remember. Feedback screeching from Peavey stacks, skinny lead vocalist cries: “YOU’RE MINE! I’LL KILL ANYONE BETWEEN US!”
Over amplified and sounding miserable, the song finishes as house lights quickly take over.
Instant sobriety collides with the eyes of the drunk. Dizzying, pupils going small, stunned. Mixed with massive amounts of embarrassment as the wooing see their fucked up minds view as a nite-mate crashing to dismal foolishness, so far away from their fantasy. This fantasy a result of bull-talk with friends and the hopes to get laid my hottie.
Coin turned, 180 degrees, eyes of the ladies fully see the asshole that they have let buy them drinks for hours. Shared sweat and kisses on the blurry dance floor and bar area, too close to bathrooms with nonexistent ventilation. Smelling urine and shit, not minding as booze changes immediate priorities. Sucking on tongue, holding, telling lies.
This bitch is a cow!
Damn! His face is covered with zits.
Was that tattoo a rose before she gained 150 pounds and it stretched?
Are those purplish blisters on his arms Aids?
Under the light that only the truly desperate experience at the closing of a bar, when all is as exposed as strolling nude through a shopping mall during Xmas shopping season. Like one who sheds all clothing during a Baptist revival, yelling Look at me!
He looks at his friend Mike. He hair black and tidy, resembling Charlie Sheen in Wallstreet. “Where is she?”
Mike, looking bewildered, asks: “Man, which one? You nailed two or three tonight?”
Mike visibly upset and even he does not know which is worse: Being upset because his best doesn’t remember the one he wants him to find or that his friend got laid three times and he didn’t. Hasn’t in the last three months. Failing.
“thuu one wit the hairrrrr,”
“Fuck wad, they all had hair!” Grabbing his last shot from the bar, a quadruple Jack straight back, he places an arm around his bombed friend. Taking a meager swig, loving the taste of the Tennessee whiskey as it courses his tongue flowing down his throat.
“This way, all closed. You go home now.” Ivan drones. Bouncer, 6 foot 2 inches, massive biceps and angled face adorned with jet black hair. Motioning, arms stretched, corralling, herding stragglers to the entrance/exit. Wanting them to leave quickly, he thinks of where he’d rather be. Safe place, tiny appartment with his wife and two small children. Place of love and quiet. Place without drunks to control. Place of peace.
“fuuuuuuck, brah! Guh-geyet yurr meat-hucks offsa me, bitch!” He said this to the bouncer cornering him and aiming toward the door.
Raising wasted arm to the massive body that held a shirt with a single word: SECURITY on chest and it being brushed off like a moths against a single candle-lit night.
“He’s not himself, “ Mike said, barely able to hold his friend upright as well as himself as the bouncer countered. Stumbling, wondering why he still does this over and endlessly for this friend. He covers him.