Saturday, December 19, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part fourteen copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part fourteen, The Worst Day Since Yesterday
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sDSud7vAH_0
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You shouldn't give a shit, but you do. You shouldn't be jealous and hurt, but you are. You realize that somewhere between Wal-Mart and the golf course you started to fall for this girl who just a second ago was going down on the deformed tub of lard who also happens to be your only real friend. You feel betrayed, and you feel pissed off.
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"What the fuck?" you ask, trying to keep your voice under control and not quite managing it. "What?" says Chickenwing innocently. "She wanted me to give her some coke so we made an arrangement. It's not like you guys are a couple or anything. Anyway, can't you fucking knock?" "Can't you lock the door asshole?" you reply, reaching behind you and locking the deadbolt to demonstrate. You're walking across the living room to kick his teeth out when there's a pounding at the door. Whoever it is most assuredly can knock, and isn't afraid to do so. A loud voice calls out, "Open this goddamn door NOW or I'll kick the fucker in!"
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You recognize the voice immediately, it's the biker you shared the intimate moment with at Ronnie's Roadhouse. Your walk becomes a run as your plans abruptly change. Instead of going over to the couch you go straight into the bathroom and start to climb out the narrow window. For a brief moment you feel bad about leaving Wal-Mart girl behind, but fuck it, she deserves what she gets. Chickenwing too. Those two assholes deserve each other, you think to yourself.
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The biker makes good on his threat to kick in the door, right as you're in the middle of climbing out the window. You hear Wal-Mart girl yell, "What the hell do you think you're..." and then a a loud slapping sound that most likely means biker dude just gave her five across the face. Then you're out the window and running for your life.
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You don't know where to go, but you know you don't want to go home. Chickenwing is probably telling the guy everything he knows about you at this very moment, he'll know you didn't move out of the apartment and he and his biker buddies will go back there. You can't call the police obviously, not as long as Detective Blake is still an employee of the department. You could go to your parent's place, but you'd rather get killed by a crazed motorcycle enthusiast than have to endure that kind of slow torture.
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You don't know what the fuck to do, so you decide to have a good strong drink and think about it some more. You ride the bus across town to this little yuppie dive bar. Finnegan's Irish Pub it's called, but there isn't a true Irishman in the place, just preppy college kids and a few middle management types in bad suits. No chance anyone will come looking for you here, normally you wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
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You go into the restroom to take a piss, and there's a college kid at the sink washing his hands and his face under the tap continuously. "Oh man, water feels SOOO good when you're shroomin!" he says, smiling the smile of the truly FUBAR. You smile back as you reach for your wallet and ask him if he's got anymore mushrooms he might like to get rid of. He does. You slip him a fifty and he feeds you several large caps and a generous handful of stems that you wash down with water from the sink.
TO BE CONTINUED...

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