Kylee, with shaking hands, managed to pour an entire fifth of well whiskey into a tray of shot glasses, and jam three Bud bottles on it, to be taken off by Well Whiskey Bro #3 for him and his brothers. Mah and Pop were set up with a pitcher of Pabst. A six pack of Miller was jammed into a jive [0] gallon bucket, ice on top, another six-pack o top, and heroically hauled up t he bar top for Dallas Jack. A six of cold Guiness bottles was hoisted up to Jack, as she nodded to Rodeo Ron up front, sawing off a wedge-shaped brown head with a shattered glass panel remnant. A pitcher of Hazy IPA was put on to pour… then the sound of jeans sliding over the bar and the breaking of a shotgun breach brought her about, to look up at the sultry-kill-bitch visage of her boss, T&T, who had earned her name in many ways today.
“Good girl, Buttercup,” said her boss, as she ejected two shell casings to land in Mah & Pop’s pitcher of Pabst, to which the old man chuckled and Mah chortled, “Gunpowder Pabst!” and drank deeper of her mug to get first dibs on the foaming shotgun shell swill.
T&T continued, “Fuckin’ best day of my life, Buttercup. Keep the booze flowing. I have a Gerber boot knife behind the bar—doesn’t missfire. I’ll cut your throat before they rape you—don’t you worry.”
“Oh My God,” she began to cry, then heard a deep moan echo from the women’s room, fllowed by a pre-orgasmic groan “That’s right you fuckin’ Pedo, give it to a real woman, bring it home baby, rounding third, you barbie-humping stud!”
Kylee grew angry, and with a snarl, hurled the mug assigned to the pitcher of IPA over the end of the bar, to shatter in the women’s room, with a peep like shriek.
A calm, feminine, boss bitch hand patted her shoulder, “He’s a Mama’s boy—she’s doing you a favor, Buttercup. We’ve got a real man commin’ for you, I sense it,” as the smell of gunpowder assaulted Kylee’s delicate nose, along with something that reeked like liquid iron, that dripped red from T&T’s trigger finger while she withdrew the hand of contrition and fished between her over-sized breasts for two shells, “Double-OT-Buck, bitch—bananas and rice, my ass!”
“Crown, Bitch, blackberry if you please,” snarled Mah. To this T&T thunked a full bottle on the bar-top, “You’re such a saint, Mah—hope they polish that pearly gate for you; and try not to bust Saint Peter’s balls, will you?”
A crash up front obliterated the conversation, the sequential orgasmic moans form the women’s room, and the meek “Thanks,” of Hazy IPA as he took the pitcher and drank the foam. A pallet of bananas and rice, apparently with its parachute caught on the front roof of the building, swung into and through the window to the left, next to whatever Asian joint that was there, leaving the entire hall front clear of glass frontage. Four bodies hurdled through, finally causing Wichita Phatz to refrain from running the table as he stood with the three Well Whiskey Brothers and gawked, offended at the further interruption of their now free drinking, dart-throwing and pool playing.
One skinny body was mashed, another dashed, one with a beret hung by the arm and bleeding from glass cuts, dangled and twisting. Rodeo Ron had dove for cover, losing his pistol.
A Somali had survived on impact and was sliding away from the shrink-wrapped bananas and rice, a wicked sharp spade in one hand, chewing manically on something. Spying Kylee, their eyes meeting, the maniac hefted his shovel, screamed in some language, and charged towards the bar patrons between the rows of pool tables. A pool ball bounced off of the skinny hip in its skirt. A dart sprouted from its left shoulder. The men up front were trying to no avail—then he was passed them.
Dallas Jack stepped up and shouted, “Not TOO-DAY Rice Nigga!” Drawing a pistol, the Cowboys fan fired, missed, and then the weapon jammed. Kylee was looking on in horror. T&T was standing over her doing nothing with her god-like shotgun, just resting it on her shoulder like she wanted Kylee to be shoveled into pieces or abducted by this fiend. Ass & Brass was moaning in the background, “That’s it, you Mac N’ Cheese eatin’…”
Dallas Jack was knocked aside by the Skinny.
Mah and Pop were toasting, the old broad snorting, “My virtue is safe—no skinny wants this ole bag!”
Hazy IPA squealed like a little girl and sat on the floor, hugging his pitcher of IPA like a teddy bear.
“What the fuck,” screamed some angry little bitch, somehow named Buttercup as T&T laughed like the Sexy Witch of the South.
Just like that the Skinny leaped atop the bar, knocking over the pitcher of Pabst glaring down at Kylee, his pointed teeth grinning through some mashed spinach mess, his beady eyes gleaming from his wedge-shaped head, raising his shovel on high to chop her face. T&T placed her hand on her shoulder as if to say, ‘It will all be okay,’ which felt like a deep lie—then a growl, a growl that sounded like a wrecker chain winching her old KIA out of that giant pothole when she was sixteen on that auspicious occasion when The World first set its evil eyes upon her as its prey…
The shovel came down to chop her, then the face that directed it, opened hysteric wide as if in fear, and was yanked back to splatter on the bar by a large armored head, the head of some great black mastiff—the biggest dog she had ever seen or even dreamed, covered in armor like it was decked out for a retro-heavy metal album cover, and the body was dragged down between Mah and Pops who both laughed as they drank, the pitcher of Pabst swept into Eternity. A grisly feast upon the still-living doomed being dragged pitilessly towards Hell’s yawning door, commenced on the other side of the bar.
The unseen feast of horror, which caused Mah & Pop to smile and drink deep as they looked to the floor between them, and Dallas Jack to exclaim, “Squirm while you be ett’ Wedgey!” was somehow rivaled by the moaning of Willy Mac as he finally gave up the ghost seed out back.
“I am numb, is this hell or purgatory—what did I do to deserve this,” so she heard uttered from her own quivering lips.
The boss bitch hand then jostled her little shoulders, “It’s just Kansas, Buttercup. Now get Norman a drink.”
“What?” she turned and looked up into those man-eater eyes.
The stern face over the neck tattoos broke into a gentle smile and said, “The Black Sails Imperial Stout, under the leather mug. Fill a Budweiser bucket with it, lots of foam, Norman likes head!”
To this Mah & Pops laughed harshly and long. Filling the bucket was not mad easier by the terrible snarling, screaming, tearing and cracking sounds on the other side of the bar, where Hazy IPA cried out loud like a toddler. The bucket was soon full as she heard, “Gooood boy, my Kill-boy-boy!” from T&T.
Kylee turned, safe now from fear of the sounds, which had stopped, to be replaced by a hasty canine panting. Looking up, she saw a god-of-dogs, in armor, a great black dog, standing taller than Willy Mack had, his great armored paws on the bar top, a wedge-shaped head between the paws, grinning vacant-eyed at her, a brown hand dangling from the forearm held between those great slathering jaws. The dogs’ manic eyes, calmed, the jaws releasing the arm to fall and flop over the bar top across her new work shoes. A bark then made her ears ring. The communication was direct and universal, and need not be translated by her boss, who soothed, “My Kill-boy-boy!” As the dog smiled and panted, Kylee set the bucket of over-poured dark beer between his paws, pushing the Somali skull back over the bar. The dog thrust his muzzle into that bucket and drank like a dragon might in some myth, to drain a river. The soundtrack in the back sounded from the “Lady’s” room, “Get the fuck off—don’t ruin’ it with cuddling like some mama’s boy! Go do some man shit!”
Mah was petting the great snout, finding the fur between the steel plates and spikes, T&T saying, “Meet Norman, best dog in Wichita. Norman. Meet Buttercup—she’s working the tap so Mama can work the street sweeper.”
To this, Norman intelligently withdrew his muzzle, and barked off the foam, enthusiastically pleased with the recent turn of world-ending events. It was all too much as the room swam and the ceiling spun, strong not-man-hands easing her fall into what she prayed was a kinder Oblivion.
Notes
0.) Enthusiastically retaining this typo.
1.) Norman is a real Wichita dog, and he is my friend. -JL
