yeah, yeah, I know I never finished the first one, but that hasn't prevented me from writing the sequel. So without further ado...
CHAPTER 1
If I had known that Manny was in the hospital in Puerto Rico and not expected to come out of the hospital alive, I probably wouldn't have gone home.
If I had known that Malik was one of the 5 prisoners that escaped from the territorial prison on St. Croix, I not only wouldn't have gone home, I might have decided that it was a good time to spend a year in Europe.
I was blissfully ignorant of these two facts, which was why I found myself stepping off the plane at Cyril E. King International Airport at around 8:30 pm on a Friday evening in early December. This time I wasn't here for a visit, I was moving home. In the end, my desire to be back on The Rock and to leave the failure of my business venture in the states behind had won out over common sense, better judgment, and all of my instincts for self-preservation.
When your family knows they only get to see you for 10 days, they go out of their way to accommodate you during your time there. When you're moving back in to their house, you get to pay for your own cab from the airport. I grabbed a rum punch from the airport bar, hailed a taxi, and told him to head for the Northside.
"No, man, not this way. I want to go through town down Back Street and then up Mafolie Hill."
"Dat gyan cost extra, m'sun. Way outta my way an' I gyan have lot of calls from de clubs tonight."
Technically the taxis here are legally required to charge a flat-rate based on the destination, and it's really only going to take an extra five or ten minutes, but he's right about being busy on a friday night during tourist season so I pad the normal fare with an extra $20 and tell him to drive slow down Back Street. On an ordinary night, there would be plenty of things to catch my attention here, Dominican hookers, drug dealers with waist-length dredlocks, drunk tourists throwing up in gutters or getting mugged in dark alleys, pimps, hustlers, addicts, and degenerates of every imaginable permutation infest Charlotte Amalie after dark like maggots on a shitheap, but I only have eyes for one thing, and there it is, on my left. And much to my surprise (and immense relief), Sky High is still shuttered and abandoned, almost 15 months after the shootout and the subsequent fire that ravaged it at the hands of one pissed-off and desperate white boy. I give no indication that this burnt-out husk of a former strip club and whorehouse is the object of my interest, and the cabbie takes no notice of my intense scrutiny of the site where I probably signed my eventual death warrant. We reach the end of Back Street and turn left up Bunker Hill, hook another left up Mafolie Hill, left again on Skyline Drive until it turns into Hull Bay Road, and then I'm home.
By 9:30, I've showered, shaved, and changed into shorts and a t-shirt. I haven't told anyone I'm not related to that I'm coming back, for obvious reasons. As I'm pondering whether to call Devin or Tim first, the decision is taken out of my hands. My cell phone starts ringing, showing the caller as an unfamiliar number with a Los Angeles area code. Relieved that it's not a call originating on St. Thomas, I answer.
"Hello?"
"J! how the fuck are you, brother?"
It's Linkey. My best friend since birth, only son of my father's former smuggling partner. I haven't talked to him since we had a falling out when I lived in LA, 5 years ago. From my perspective, he still owes me a substantial amount of money. Still, he's my best friend and 5 years is a long enough dose of the silent treatment.
"Uhh....I'm good, man. How are you doing? It's good to hear from you, man. For real, I mean that."
"Never mind all that. Water under the bridge, man. Listen, I need a favor from you."
"Uhh...OK, but that might be tricky, you see, I'm...."
"Yeah, you're on St. Thomas. Listen, drop your shit off, put a couple days worth of clothes in a backpack, and get your ass to Red Hook. If you hurry, you can still catch the last ferry to St. John."
My brain is vapor locked. What the fuck is he talking about?
"Uhh..."
"Seriously, you need to hurry. The last ferry leaves at 11. Remember where the old Back Room was in Cruz Bay?"
"Yeah..."
"Well it's called the Lizard Lounge now. Get there as quick as you can, it's urgent."
"Waittaminute, what the fuck is going on here? What are you talking about? And why would I run off to St. John? I just fucking got here, bro, I want to say hi to my family. What's in St. John that's so important?"
"Nevermind your mom and Doc. They'll be there when you get back. Just get your ass to the Lizard Lounge. When you get there, ask for the Manager."
"Why?"
"Because, that's me. I bailed on LA about 6 months ago. I need a bouncer. One that can deal with white people and West Indians. My last bouncer was a statesider, and that didn't work out well."
"What do you mean by that?"
"He got stabbed last night. Don't worry, he was an idiot. You won't have any problems. Just get here tonight. I need you man, I'm serious. I need someone here that I can trust."
No sense arguing. He and I both know that I'm going to say yes. My mom comes in as I'm stuffing some clothes in my backpack.
"Hi honey, welcome home! Wait, why are you packing that? You're not going somewhere, are you? You just got here!"
"Umm, yeah mom, I gotta get to Red Hook before 11. Linkey called, he needs me to work tonight."
This has exactly the effect I hoped it would, which is to leave her confused and speechless. Best to cut her off at the pass before she gets a good head of steam up. I kiss her on the cheek and head out the door.
I call Cuz for a ride from the bottom of the driveway. He shows up ten minutes later. Red Hook is a 30 minute drive from the house. 15 minutes later, we're pulling into the ferry dock parking lot.
"Jesus, Cuz, I see almost dying hasn't done anything to slow you down."
"Nah, J, gotta live life every minute, y'know?"
I can't argue with that. I thank him for the lift and promise to catch up to him later, and get on the last boat to Cruz Bay.
I should probably mention that I'm posting this in Apple talk rather than, say, Literate Chaotic because I want people to actually read it and offer feedback.
That's real good ECH, is the first one one the forums? I did a search and couldn't find it.
I would have read it if it were in Literate Chaotic...
I like it. I mean, I grew up very civilized, so it still kind of freaks me out that people actually behave in this way, but it's enjoyable to read about.
I should also mention that although the original story is an embellishment of true events, this one is 100% factual in every detail. Believe me when I say that there was absolutely no need at all for embellishment or artistic license in this one.
The first one is in Literate Chaotic, I believe, the thread is called "THE LITERARY EVENT OF THE CENTURY"
CHAPTER 2
By the time my memory finally dredges up the location of the old Back Room, the local crackhead has asked me for money 3 different times. It's unlikely that he realizes I'm the same person he asked ten minutes ago. His name is Akil, and he's the son of the captain of the tiny VIPD substation on St. John. This pretty much enables him to be as much of a fuck-up as he can be without fear of legal intervention. He also apparently doesn't remember that I kicked the crap out of him last year at Shipwreck Tavern for leaning over my barstool and taking a sip from my straw. No harm, no foul, I think to myself, is a maxim that must be universal among crackheads. I finally find the tiny alley where the old Back Room, now known as the Lizard Lounge, is located. I decide that a name like that can only come from a wealthy stateside expat functional alcoholic who decided the best way to support their habit was to own a bar. It's not an uncommon phenomenon in these parts. It rarely works out as well as the wealthy alcoholics want it to.
There's a huge West Indian guy sitting on a stool a few feet in front of the door.
"Five dollah covah tonight, m'sun."
"I don't think so."
"Whaya mean don' t'ink so? Y'mus' give de doorman five dollah or y'nuh gettin in, bway!"
"Asshole, I'm the doorman. Now get the fuck out of here and stop harassing my customers."
"Whaaaa? Das some mout' y'got on you, bway! I gwan remembuh you, m'sun! Watcha back."
This sort of thing, I presume, is why Linkey wanted me here in the first place. Time to start speaking this guy's language.
"De only ting you need to remember about me is that if I have any harrasments with you again you gwan find y'self in a Frenchie fishtrap. Now get ya muddascunt down de road, rasclaat. An' don' come back aroun' here."
He gets up and takes a tentative half-step towards me. The only movement I make is to put my right hand in my pocket, where it rests on my stepdad's wickedly sharp buck knife that I "borrowed" on my way out of the house. I haven't even officially started working yet and I'm already getting into it with the local shitheads. I promise myself that I'm going to insist to Linkey that I'm only working for him for a week or three until I find a regular job on St. Thomas. I know it's a lie, but I tell myself anyway. On the other hand, working on St. John has some distinct advantages, not least among them that I'm unlikely to come to the attention of the people who want me dead. The big dred decides he doesn't want to live with the shame of getting stuck and beaten by a white boy, sucks his teeth at me, and turns away to head down towards the other end of the alley, presumably to try the same scam on the patrons of the Front Room.
I walk inside. The place is absolutely packed. There's a diminutive white kid sitting on a stool just inside the door.
"Uhh, can I see your ID?"
I almost laugh at this, but he looks so earnest (and so completely terrified) that I decide to be nice.
"No."
"But, umm, I need to see your ID."
"Are you the bouncer?"
"Well, sort of? I'm just filling in..."
"Wrong answer. You can't be a bouncer if you lack confidence. Especially if you're 5'5". Did you know there was a guy sitting out front extorting $5 from everyone who comes in here? That's not good for business, bro."
"Well, at least he's outside..."
"Not anymore. I chased him out of here. What's your name, kid?"
"Ryan."
"Well, Ryan, tonight is your lucky night. I'm your replacement."
"You're J? Oh my god...you seriously have NO idea how glad I am to see you."
"Where are you from, Ryan?"
"Wisconsin."
"Well, a word of advice. Down here, you don't ask for ID. Makes you look stupid. You should be more concerned with checking to see if they're carrying a piece than with whether or not they're 18. Nobody cares about the legal drinking age down here. Now sit here and practice that for an hour, I've gotta find Linkey."
"But I thought..."
"Sit here and practice not being a scared white boy. If you get into trouble, just holler for me. Got it?"
"Uhh, yeah?"
"Good."
Linkey is nowhere to be seen, and I'd rather let him come to me anyway, so I make my way through the throng of drunks and find a stool at the bar. The bartender is busy at the other end. I can't make out his face fully in the dim light, but I can see that he has a grotesque scar running down the side of his face from eye to chin. Reminds me of a guy I used to know in Seattle who worked at the Showbox and got mauled by a pitbull one day. I wonder if this guy ran into the same dude who stabbed the last bouncer. I finally get his attention and yell for a Heineken. He stops short about 3 feet from me, with his jaw hanging open.
"Justin? For real? What the fuck are you doing here?"
It's Adam, who I used to know in Seattle. Small world.
"I'm the new bouncer. For now."
"Wait, you're the J that Linkey was talking about? Jesus, man, this isn't Jimmy Z's. You have any idea what you're getting yourself into?"
"Yeah, dude. I'm native to this part of the world. That's exactly why Linkey wanted me here. That Heineken isn't getting any colder in your hand, you know."
"Oh, sorry. I think Linkey is upstairs somewhere. Check the office first, it's the door on the left at the top of the stairs."
At the top of the stairs, I'm greeted by another diminutive white boy. It's like Linkey is raising an army of short metrosexual statesiders.
"Hi. I'm Caleb. You must be J. Linkey will be back in a few minutes, meanwhile, we have business to attend to in the office."
He leads me into the "office", which is more like a glorified broom closet. There's a pizza box on the table.
"You hungry?"
I haven't eaten since breakfast.
"I could eat."
He points at the pizza box.
"Well, that oughtta take care of your appetite. Have as much as you want, we've all had our share."
I open the pizza box, expecting something like pepperoni and sausage. That dream is quickly dashed, but Caleb was right, this will certainly take care of my appetite. Inside the pizza box is a polished marble slab with what has to be the largest line of cocaine I have ever seen laid out from corner to corner.
Waiting for more.
Damn, dude. I think any given story you tell would have killed me. :lulz:
Not sure what feedback to offer, except that I've read them both (what you've posted so far) and I like them both a great deal. They strike me as kind of modern day pulp/noir, and I don't mean that in a bad way, I'd like to read more.
Also I dig the phonetic dialogue when you write in an island accent, it comes through clearly without being either impenetrable or insulting, both of which can be common traps with capturing accent phonetically.
Chapter 3
Coke is a once or twice a year thing for me. I don't actually like it all that much, so I generally only fuck with it when I'm already drunk and someone else convinces me it would be a good idea. That said, I'm a big boy and can handle my shit, so I don't even hesitate for a second. I have to switch nostrils halfway through, but a couple seconds later the marble slab is clean.
Caleb is looking at me like I just grew an extra head.
"Uhh....dude....did you just do ALL of that? You're gonna die!"
He's wrong about that, but not by much. This isn't the stepped-on 30% pure crap I'm used to in the states. This shit is right off the boat. I immediately start sweating and the room begins to lose cohesion. My body utterly rebels against the indignity I just forced on it and I vomit, exorcist style, all over the desk and Caleb's legs. A minute later, I'm still high as a fucking kite but I can function again. The cold heineken helps immensely.
"Sorry about that, man."
"Umm....I'm just glad you didn't die, dude. That was insane!"
"Well, don't be too impressed, I'm sticking you with the clean-up. I gotta go find Linkey."
I don't wait for him to reply before leaving and heading outside via the back door for a smoke and some fresh air. It's nice to stand outside and just breathe and not move for a few minutes. I haven't stopped going full-tilt since I got on the plane and it's left me without a chance to properly appreciate what it means to be home. Never mind that there are still people looking to kill me from the last time I was here, and never mind that I can already feel my self getting entangled in some more neck-deep shit. My brain is pushed aside by my temporarily heightened senses. All I'm focused on is the smell of the flamboyant trees carried on the warm evening breeze, mingled with a deeper and more primal smell that promises a hard rain before the morning comes. I love being in tune with this part of the world. The fact that I have to scratch and claw to find a few stolen moments to enjoy it just makes me love it even more.
Heading back inside, I scan the room until I spot a familiar figure slouched in a chair along the back wall and make my way over there.
"You still owe me $2500."
"Good to see you too, man. And according to Caleb, I only owe you $2450 now."
"Fair enough. I won't even ask for the interest."
I loom over him for a few seconds until I'm certain that he doesn't know whether I'm gonna punch him in the eye or not. Once I see the proper amount of discomfort begin to take shape on his face, I grab him out of his chair in a bear hug.
"You fucking prick. It really IS good to see you, man."
"Yeah, I just had to make you sweat for a second. I'll consider us square. I don't know what kind of fucked-up little scam you've got going here but you're gonna make damn sure that you cut me in on it or this conversation is over before it starts. And since I know that you know what kind of trouble I can make for you if I leave here unhappy, I'm confident that you'll agree to my terms."
"You always were a blunt hard-ass. But you're right, I do have a fucked-up little scam going and I do have every intention of sharing the ill-gotten booty with you."
We sit there drinking beers while he catches me up on the last few years, drawing to a close with what he's got planned here and what he needs from me. It involves substantially more than my skills as a bouncer.
"OK, so what keeps the owner from finding out about this?"
"She's blacked-out drunk every day by 6pm. We could tell her about it and she'd forget by the next morning. Only thing we've gotta be careful of is letting Ryan catch on. He's her cousin, he's not one of my hires. Caleb is solid despite his appearance, and Adam..."
"Yeah, I know all about Adam."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean I know him. He used to work at The Showbox in Seattle. I've been involved in many a bar fight that he started. But he's a good shit, and reasonably trustworthy."
"Yeah, until you showed up he was the closest thing I had to a right-hand man."
"Ha! Let's get one thing straight. I'm here as an equal partner. I'm not your right-hand man or anybody else's. As far as regular bar business, I'm fine with deferring to your authority in front of the troops, but when it comes to our little deal, the first time I think you're trying to pull some sort of rank on me I'm out."
Linkey is a slippery devil. If you don't shut him down before he gets going, by the time he's spun his web you won't even realize how deeply you've been drawn in. Last time I let him get the upper hand in something like this, I ended up being out a few grand and having to sleep in the park in Venice Beach for a few nights until I could hustle up enough loot for a bus ticket out of town. This time, on my home turf, I've got the opportunity to even things out a bit and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relishing the opportunity.
"Fair enough, J. I'm really just glad to have someone here I can trust. I don't have to explain to you how ugly things could get if this goes wrong."
"Hell, what's a few more people trying to kill me?"
"What?"
"Nothing, don't worry about it. It's almost 4am man, time to clear these chumps out of here and lock it down, huh?"
"Yeah, you mind taking over for Ryan for a bit while we're doing last call? This is a pretty normal time for us to have problems and he's not cut out for it."
"He's not cut out for much, I don't think. I'll deal with that, you do the register and lock the doors."
It's one of those rare nights when nobody in a VI bar decides to start shit on the way out the door or right outside of it. Just as well, I'm not in the mood for fighting which means I'd have to skip straight to the cutting and that would probably endanger our little endeavor here. I've posted Ryan to the back door and Caleb is busy in the upstairs office, so nobody but me notices Linkey doing everything at the register twice, including putting the night's cash take in two separate bags.
This is gonna work out nicely.
Dude, that's great!
I also just read the first part, that was also damn good, even if you leave it on a massive cliff-hanger.
Chapter 4 (possibly NSFW)
"So....I thought you lived on a sailboat? Why are we hiking up this fucking mountain?"
"I do, but my dad took it over to Vieques so he could ditch his wife there and come back to die in peace."
"Waittaminute, didn't you say the pain meds have made him absolutely incoherently insane most of the time? And you let him sail your Cal 39 to Vieques?"
"Dude, you know my dad. He could sail that thing to Africa one-armed in his sleep high on peyote. It's cool. Besides, we were all REALLY in favor of him ditching Roxy. I'm betting that just getting rid of her will give him another month or two. She's just as big a cancer as the thing eating his pancreas."
"Fair enough. So where are we going, then? And why didn't we steal a couple of donkeys to carry us there?"
"We're going to Bubbles's apartment."
"Umm...what?"
"Bubbles. We're going to her apartment."
"Who the fuck is Bubbles? And why did her parents hate her so much?"
"Bubbles is Adam's girlfriend. She used to be a stripper."
"And after she quit she decided she was gonna just keep her stage name?"
"Yup. And we gotta be quiet when we get there, she's gonna be PISSED if she wakes up and 3 dudes she doesn't like are drunk in her living room."
"She doesn't even know me, how can she not like me?"
"I wasn't counting you. She hates the rest of us, especially Adam."
"Uhh..."
"Yeah, I don't get it either. Apparently he has a magic dick or some shit. But for real, if we wake her up it's gonna take all of our remaining stash of blow to keep her from flipping out, and then we won't have any left for ourselves."
Adam interjects.
"AND DON'T FUCKIN' FART, ANY OF YOU. SHE FUCKIN' WAKES UP IF SOMEONE FARTS, I SWEAR TO CHRIST."
I just shake my head and keep trudging up the hill.
After what seems like a fucking eternity, we arrive at a one-bedroom apartment with a screened-in porch. We flop down on the couch as Adam goes to get some beer from the fridge. He comes back with 3 ice-cold Presidentes.
"OK, guys, put these in your fucking mouths and stay the fuck quiet. I'm gonna go in and fuck my girlfriend for a minute."
"Uhh, I thought you weren't supposed to wake her up?"
"Yeah. She won't wake up for that, don't worry. But if I get her off while she sleeps, she'll be that much less likely to wake up later."
I turn to Linkey.
"I thought you said he had a magic dick, dude."
"Yeah, it's magic because it's practically invisible."
This elicits a strangled snorting laugh from Caleb.
"Shhh! Dude, don't piss Bubbles off!"
It's all any of us can do, at this time of night and in our current condition, to keep something even remotely resembling a straight face. Caleb starts laughing harder, and his attempts to stifle it cause him to erupt in a fit of choked coughs. He stands up to try to catch his breath and pitches forward onto the coffee table, knocking empty bottles everywhere. Needless to say, it's a long fucking way from being quiet.
Apparently, we've woken Bubbles up right in the middle of Adam plowing away at her.
"What the FUCK? Aww, get OFF me motherfucker! What the fucking FUCK is going on here?!?"
A series of fleshy-sounding smacks come through the bedroom door. I'm guessing they're NOT the sound of balls slapping taint.
"Ow! Ow! What the fuck, bitch, stop fucking slapping me!"
That's Adam. Linkey turns to us and whispers urgently.
"Quick, fuckers. Pretend you're asleep!"
We all take up various sprawled positions on the couches about 5 seconds before an enraged and silicone-enhanced ex-stripper bursts through the door.
"I shoulda fucking known! Fucking Linkey, you asshole! What the fuck are you fucking cockholes doing here?!? And who the fuck is THAT asshole?"
I can only assume she's pointing at me. I'm fiercely pretending to be passed out. I swear I can hear Caleb giggling.
"Fucking assholes, answer me! Goddammit, I thought I fucking told you assholes to stop coming over here and waking me up with your fucking partying! MotherFUCK!"
Caleb breaks first.
"Suck a dick, Bubbles. Can't you see we're fucking sleeping?"
Linkey and I start howling with laughter.
"Oh, I fucking HATE you motherfuckers. You'd better have some goddamn coke for me!"
Linkey.
"Oh yeah? You'd better let me get across from Adam and give you the old Eiffel Tower."
"Fuck YOU, asshole! I wouldn't let you put that shriveled up diseased vienna sausage inside me of you were goddamn Pablo Escobar. You've got herpes that have herpes."
"Big words coming from a stripper named Bubbles."
"Fuck you, Linkey. Hey! YOU! Who the fuck are you?"
"Hi, I'm J. It's a pleasure to meet you, I've heard a lot about you."
Totally straight face. Can't believe I pulled that off.
"What kind of a name is J? That's a fucking letter, not a name. Anyway, J, where's the fucking coke? I know you assholes are all high as fucking kites. You're in my house, you'd better come with it."
"I hate to tell you this, Bubbles, but I am a productive and drug-free member of society."
"Fuck you. Linkey! Where's the fucking coke?"
"Shut up, Bubbles. Go eat a xanax and go back to sleep so Adam can finish nutting on your chin."
"you know what? Fuck you, and fuck you too Caleb. And Adam, you can go fuck yourself. You and I are done. I want your shit out of here in the morning."
"Umm, fine by me."
"And you. J. Come over here."
"Uhh..."
"Unless you want me to kick all of your sorry asses back down the hill so you can spend the night on the floor of the Lizard Lounge, get up and come over here."
Sounds reasonable to me. Until, that is, I actually walk over to where Bubbles is standing, at which point she pulls her shorts down, sticks her hand down my pants to grab my junk, and jams her tongue in my mouth."
"Uhh, didn't you just have his dick in your mouth?"
"Ha! Don't you worry, honey, if I did it was too small to get past my teeth. Now you're either gonna tell me where the coke is, or you're gonna give me another reason to let you and your asshole friends stay here tonight."
She's probably bluffing, figuring I won't do the deed right in the living room in front of my friends, one of whom she just broke up with about 3 minutes ago.
She's wrong. I throw a questioning look over her shoulder at Adam, who replies with an "I don't give a shit, go ahead" gesture. I push Bubbles back against the kitchen wall, drop trou, and start giving her what she wants. In spite of her feverish thrusting and bucking, she's still intent on talking shit.
"Hey Adam, your buddy here is at least 3 of you! I haven't been fucked like this since that time I invited DaJuan from the Front Room over when you were over in Vieques last month!"
I look up at Adam, still not entirely trusting that he won't decide to get angry about this scene and start hacking at us with a machete. Instead, he's frantically gesturing at Linkey, rubbing his nose with his thumb. Linkey gets the hint and dumps the last of the coke out on the coffee table and starts chopping lines. These guys are professional assholes, and I love them for it. Bubbles is shrieking like a fucking banshee, making noises like a porn star. I'm positive that 90% of it is for show, but I'm getting mine so I don't really care. I turn Bubbles around and bend her over the kitchen counter. I mean, it's not like I want to romantically gaze into her eyes or anything. I look over my shoulder and see that the rest of the guys have taken care of their business and left one fat rail for me. Frankly, I don't even want it, but I DO want to do it in front of this crazy bitch after I glue her asscheeks together with baby batter. Then I want to get the fuck out of here. I don't care if anyone follows me. I can see the sun coming up through the window slats and I'd be just as happy to catch the first ferry back to Red Hook and forget this crazy night ever happened. I can feel myself nearing climax, and I throw Linkey a signal over my shoulder like some deviant symphony conductor. I can see them standing by the door with the rest of the beer. I guess I won't be leaving alone after all.
In one swift motion, I pull out, spread Bubbles's asscheeks apart, jam myself into her asscrack, and unload something that's been brewing for quite some time. It's messy as hell. I spin around, inhale the line of blow on the coffee table, and toss the empty tooter at Bubbles's head.
"Nice meeting you Bubbles. Thanks for letting me steal your beer and blow my load all over your ass. Guess we'll be seeing you."
I hop out the door and around the corner of the porch before I stop to pull my pants up. I don't want to take a chance on catching an empty beer bottle in the head through the open window by the front door. The rest of the crew is halfway down the driveway, doubled over with laughter.
"Holy shit, bro, I can't believe you did that!"
"Dude, that was epic. She was totally bluffing, you know."
"Holy shit, J, you just fucked my girlfriend in every sense of the word. That was amazing. I hope you nutted inside her and gave her a bastard."
"Nah, but she's gonna have to take a hose to her asscrack to clean it out. Now someone gimme a beer, this drip is fucking killing me. So, we gonna go sleep on the floor of the bar?"
"Nah, you and I are gonna sleep in the hammocks upstairs. These two clowns can fight over who gets to be big spoon on the loveseat in the downstairs office."
"Fuck it, I might just grab a few more beers and go watch the sun come up on the beach. American Cafe is gonna be open in about 45 minutes, I could really go for some eggs benny."
"Not the worst idea you ever had, J. Besides, the new morning bartender there makes a KILLER bloody. Fuck it, lets just go there now and then we can go catch a nap at the bar."
He's right. It's probably the best bloody mary I've ever had, and the eggs benny is goddamn good as well. I feel almost human again, despite all the horrible things I've done to myself over the last 36 hours. Linkey pays our bill and we finish the walk back into downtown Cruz Bay.
We arrive back at the Lizard Lounge. Linkey fishes the key out of his pocket.
As he puts his hand on the doorknob to steady it for the key, the door swings wide open.
"What the fuck..."
I follow him inside, tensed for a confrontation with robbers.
Instead, we find ourselves face to face with Ryan and a visibly enraged girl who can only be Liz, the notorious owner. She reeks of vodka and her hands are shaking with either rage, DTs, or both. This makes me very nervous as soon as I realize that she's pointing a small revolver at us.
:mittens:
double :mittens:
I'm so glad you continued this.
I like it. It needs a bit of proof reading, but no polishing outside of maybe cleaning up the dialogue paragraphs (for form, not content). That shit is salable.
You really think so? Thanks, man. Maybe if I ever finish it I'll look into shopping it around for some short story compilations.
Quote from: First City Hustle on November 14, 2010, 11:48:27 PM
You really think so? Thanks, man. Maybe if I ever finish it I'll look into shopping it around for some short story compilations.
A page a day. When you have 120 pages, beat up a publisher (this shit is too good for Lulu). You can even do it as a series of short stories.