A tall buck-toothed stranger clomps up to the bar wearing tight jeans, western shirt, boots, a cowboy hat and myopic-thick glasses. “Where’s all the poontang?” he hollers.
“Friend,” I say, “right now it’s mostly guys gettin’ off work, but you just made happy hour.”
“Dollar drafts. Till six.”
“Three beers? All at once?”
“Gonna cost me more in ten minutes?”
“Yep. Two-twenty-five each.”
“Line ‘em up!”
“Okay. Here you go. Three beers—three bucks.”
He slaps a roll of bills on the bar—a fifty in plain sight up top—digs in his pocket and proceeds to count out two dollars in small change. He then extracts a wrinkled single from the middle of the roll. “We’re square,” he says.
“Gee thanks, pal.” There wouldn’t be a tip.
“Any cunts ever come in?”
“Yeah, ladies do come ‘round most nights. Start filterin’ in ‘bout seven, seven-thirty.”
“They like to fuck?”
“Well, maybe. But you gotta have the right line, man. Else, go scare up one o’ them bony-ass hookers over by the bowling alley.”
“Me? Pay for pussy? I don’t think so.”
“And why’s that?”
“On account of cunts’s always beggin’ me to fuck them. I be famous for my fuckin’.”
So I go around back and phone a neighborhood gal. “Yo Delores. Wanna make some quick scratch? Got a humdinger over here.”
Sure enough, towards the end of the guy’s third beer, ‘ol Delores sashays her fine self through the door, girl all spillin’ out her halter and little cut-offs. I twitch a thumb towards the fool.
She slinks up to his sorry ass. “Hi handsome!”
He says, “Umm… uhh… err… shucks, lady… uhh… uhh… umm...”