Making FriendsMature

I saunter over to the bar, beer swishing around contentedly in my belly. I’m drunk enough to feel it but as long as I concentrate I can walk perfectly straight. Ish.

The jukebox begins playing The Doors’ The End as I rest my forearms against the mostly clean bar and study my damaged knuckle. I nod along to the music for a few seconds before I snap it back into place with a loud, drawn out, ‘Fuuuuuuuck that hurt.”

“Then maybe you should have taken your stupid ass to hospital and had a professional take care of it,” the waitress observes, appearing at my right side like a slutty angel. Her button-up white shirt is only done up about halfway and I can see the lacy black bra underneath, so I take a moment to enjoy the view before replying.

“Hey there, Tits McGee,” I say with an easy smile that’s sure to melt her panties, “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, where have I been all your life and all that shit,” she says, snorting cigarette smoke from both nostrils. “I’ve only heard that one about a billion times, honey.”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong,” I tell her, letting my smile die a slow death. “I’ve been looking for you all over hell’s half acre because me and my boys want another fucking round. Like I asked for almost an hour ago, bitch.”

“Hey buddy, don’t talk to her like that.”

I take my sweet time rotating my head from right to left. This is going to be fun.

The young man who so gallantly spoke up to defend the waitress and her assuredly spotless honour probably considers himself an athlete. That would explain the college t-shirt that must be at least ten years old clinging to arms that probably tossed barbells around a weight room an equally long time ago. I wonder if he even sees the grey hairs when he looks into the mirror, or the double chin threatening to form below his sneering lips.

“Hi there,” I say, letting my anger simmer just below the surface. I want to take my time with this one. Not like last night, with Verbs’ manager. That asshole is barely worth the gas I spent driving over to his mother’s place, where he keeps a room over the garage. Prick probably sneaks groceries off the truck at Wal-Mart for her to cook every night. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

He opens his dumb jock mouth and starts yapping. Probably some bullshit tough talk. I wouldn’t know, I’m not listening.

I’m remembering.

Let’s see. Was he here when I arrived? Was there anyone at the bar? Yeah, two guys. Sitting at opposite ends… a dude with blonde hair and… this guy. Okay. There were five cars in the parking lot when I pulled in. The Civic belongs to the waitress, the Camry is Bruno’s. That leaves the two pickup trucks and the minivan with the bumper sticker. What did it say again? Oh yeah.

My other car is a Porsche.

Fuck me, that’s gotta be his. He looks like the sort of dumb shit that would actually try to pull that off. Oh good, he’s done talking. My turn.

“Hey, that was really fascinating,” I tell him with all the sincerity I can muster. It‘s not much, but I‘m working on it. One day I‘m gonna get myself an acting gig and leave all this bullshit behind. “But listen, I’m really fucking thirsty and you’re getting in between me and my beer. So why don’t you go outside, have a nap in your pretty red Sedona, and then go pick up your kids from the playground down the street, or wherever the fuck you left them.”

“What the fuck?” He doesn’t even try to act like it ain’t his. How embarrassing. “How did you know-”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, alright? Just shut that asshole you call a mouth and let me get my boys another pitcher. And mind your fucking business before I start minding yours.”

“Oh yeah? You want to take this outside, big guy?” He’s actually getting up off his stool and getting in my face. Why does this happen everywhere I go? Is it because I’m Asian? I really don’t get it. “Because I’d be happy to teach your ass a much needed lesson in respect.”

It’s a tempting offer, I’ll admit that. But my hand is pretty sore and I don’t have my trusty sock with me. Even if I did, I’m all out of quarters. That thought reminds me of the jukebox and I pause to listen to the finale of The End. God, I fucking love that song.

Focus, Quarters.

Right. So, hurt hand, no sock. And I really want another beer.

“Listen up, Sparky. I don’t want to repeat myself, alright?” I’m pretty sure I’ve got his full attention, but it’s always good to make sure of these things. “Right now, all I know is the license plate of your vehicle - which, admittedly, is a pretty good start. But if we go out for some fresh air and I knock your ass out - which, by the way, I most definitely will - then I’m going to know all about you. I will take your wallet and find out where you live. Maybe even where you work. I’ll have your credit card numbers memorized in five seconds flat and I will go online and order some seriously embarrassing shit delivered to your house. Probably even address it to your wife. Or maybe I’ll just drop by in the middle of the night and kill your dog. You do not want to open this can of worms.”

It’s fun watching him go from self-righteous rage to doubt to cowed little bitch. It never gets old, that little transformation. I just can’t get enough of it.

He sits back down, muttering about how he doesn’t want to break his hands on my thick skull, and I turn back to the waitress. She’s lighting up another smoke, looking bored.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, your royal tittyness,” I say with a short bow. “Now then, where were we? Ah yes, you were about to get my table a fucking pitcher of fucking beer and make everybody real fucking happy. I’ll leave you to it.”

I return to my table, shaking my head at the many frustrations this world has to offer, and plop myself back into my chair. The boys are chatting away amongst themselves but I can’t be bothered to listen.

Oh, hey. I was going to tell you about one of the better jobs I did for these boys. My apologies for the delay. Get yourself comfy and I’ll tell you all about Mickey Majors.

The End

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