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Among the Young Gods
Observations in the Nighted Graveyard of the Hipster Soul: Portland, Oregon, 11/29/21
I watched Monday Night Football at the bar, a place where they now know my name.
A bodacious bad-ass native chick talked to me about my eye, showed me her left eye and explained how some rival woman gouged it out so that it hung by the retinas and she had to put it back in before she finished beating the other babe’s ass…
A handful of drunk boomer men groaned at the loss of the Seattle Seahawks against the nameless Washington, D.C. team.
The barmaids were dolls, Dawn effecting the best draft pour known to man.
A girl who looked like a third Williams sister, her hair in a pleasing afro, played pool with some sissy man, obviously smitten with her charm.
A cute Eskimo babe even bought me a beer.
After closing, two miles down the road, I walked into a neighborhood hipster joint for one last beer.
Three people sat unmasked at the bar three paces from the door. A hipster hostit, in beard and mask stood behind the bar.
I walked in up to the bar—having been unmasked for so many hours at the Gen-X/Boomer bar—and forgetting to remask for these Millenial Young Gods. The bar stools were so high that my head was at the same level as those seated at the bar and a head lower than the barkeep. So, the idea of disease exhalation did not key the self-muzzling instinct.
The fatty, the sissy and the cow looked at me aghast and the barkeep motioned up around his face, being pretty cool, “Could you at least pull your sweatshirt up over your mouth?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” and I hurriedly donned a mask, ordered a Coors light, tipped the man and sat down, taking off the mask, the ritual of cuck-muzzling having gained me admittance to this Den of the Gods.
The barkeep was cool and of mixed heritage.
The three guilty ghosts were mild-mannered and utterly non-physical beings, their young bodies already shaped in soft lines like the aristocracy of the Guilded Age.
The sissy, in the middle was with the cow to the right and announced that being one of the owners he had to go take care of something.
When he left, as the other two continued their fatty-cow concourse, the fatty moved, with obvious respect, to sit next to the cow so that he could be heard better, making no advance, no move to touch her, etc., even pulling her boy friend’s abandoned seat away from her by a half foot.
The cow waxed indignant that her sacred safe space was being invaded. The bar keep admonished the fatty who apologized, said “Sir” and “Mizz” over and over again to folks his own age and sat their chastised.
The sissy came back, chastised the fatty thrice and told him he was too drunk and that he would drive him home. The fatty, the same age as the sissy, apologize over and over again, naming his master “Sir,” and his master said, “You can apologize tomorrow when you are competent to understand how out of line you have been!”
The sissy even refused the hand shake and the fatty groveled more.
Off went the fatty, his humiliation having buoyed the cow’s sense that she was attractive enough to be the lever of his humility.
The conversation then turned to fatty, who it turns out has fallen on hard times, has no family or friends or lady, and has a terminal disease from birth, which makes this like his last year on earth. The gathered gods could not wax indignant enough that their agreeing to let him drink with cool people—even as he paid for all the drinks, even those drunk by the part owner—so that he could pretend to have a friend or two in his last year of life, did not awe him to the distant worship of the cow goddess… that he had yet, despite his low station, deemed himself worthy of near worship.
Time for The Evil One to have some fun.
With only the barkeep and the cow, I stood, masked, stepped to the bar, ignored the cow, unmasked as I sat and asked, “How late are you open?”
“Oneish,” said the hybrid sissy.
“I’ll have another beer, please.”
Knowing that the cow was aghast that I sat in the seat of the fatty, and only one empty chair separated her from undefinable and unapologetic evil, I turned my back on the lumbersome hog of a woman, 5’ 5” 300 pounds and built like a block of cheese, not a shred of grace, not a whisper of humanity, nothing but an invalidating gash of civic sub-morality.
I could tell by his body language behind the bar as he backed away from me and tilted his head to hear her whispers below the piped-in music and my glancing in the reflection of the glass bar front window, that she was miming for him to close early, to get me out of there.
Looking in the glass reflection, back at myself, sitting in the duster, black ski cap, eye patch and black boots, her hunched troll-like behind me miming her distress at my expanding aura of evil that no one seat can keep at bay, as he crossed his arms and shook his head “no” that he couldn’t just close on her whimsy, I laughed, laughed deep, laughed long, not cackling or loud, but deep and self-satisfied, mocking laughter, laughed my hate at the sick world that put this fucking cow and her ilk behind the pulpit of our Gutterslut Nation.
The whore gash of Hel shuddered and then asked the barkeep if he would stand outside while she smoked, a woman of 30, with less physical fitness than my mother at 80, whose sacred polluted cow of a hog carcass must be protected by a willowy sissy from the imagined lust of an old man looking far and away from her inhuman stain.
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