by underswansea

RCE_0164

The Eye Eye on a Monday night can be a deadening place. That is not to say nothing happens on a Monday. The place can be filled with shaky drunks, broke and regretful from a weekend of merriment. Plenty of shit can get out of hand come Monday. Just as many fights, couplings and other infidelities take place through the week. It is like a volcano surrounded in mist. Dormant. Take your eyes off it for a second and you could be knee deep in magma.

As expected a few characters were scattered throughout. Most evenly spaced at the bar.  What was unusual was about fifteen people around the pool table near the back. They were in full party mode. Four women, ten men. One of the women did a cartwheel on the way to the restroom. They were city folks. It was easy to tell by the designer clothes. Labels on the guys t-shirts. The women made up to the hilt in make-up and dark colors. All of them, men and women, had perfect teeth and manicured nails. My guess was there was not a body hair between the bunch of them.

Judging from their heightened level of excitement and aggression they had been enjoying the effects of, at least a little, booger sugar. Another thing that sets tourists and locals apart are the drugs they can afford. Tourists like the good stuff, coke and designer pills. For locals it is weed, crack, meth and booze, booze and more booze. Of course, all drugs cross socio economic boundaries given the right circumstances. And when that happens things can get really interesting.

There in the middle of them was, Ken Revimno holding a pool cue, smirking. My hamstring was still sore, while he looked fine from his trip down the stairs. He saw me clocking him and gave me a nod. I turned towards the bar. I needed a drink.

Stan greeted me, “Siskin, you old fuck hound, where you been hiding?”

“Lost. Give me a Crown; as much as you can fit in a glass,” I said, “Looks like you have some big tippers down there.” I motioned toward Revimno’s group.

“Ya, right,’ Stan said, unable to hide his sarcasm, “By the end of the night, they will scatter to every corner of the bar. I will have to lean on them to get just enough to cover the tab.”

No doubt, Stan would get what was owed. Stan didn’t need bouncers. In his bar, he was judge, jury and executioner.

I was caught up with Stan, working on my third tall whiskey when Revimno and a big guy in a tight t-shirt decided to come over and say hello.

The t-shirt had the letters A-F-F-L-I-C-T-I-O-N around his pumped up neck. It may as well of read A-S-S-H-O-L-E.

“Hey Siskin, I want you to meet my brother,” Revimno said, motioning to the muscle bound dude, who tilted his head back, cracking his neck.

The Crown Royal was good and I took another sip. I looked at them. There was a distinct resemblance.

“Your mother must be some kind of women giving birth to twin baboons.”

I could be witty after a couple stiff ones poured from the purple sack.

I heard Stan laugh just before Brother Revimno punched me in the face.

My mouth tasted like it was full of pennies. I was falling off the stool.

Falling past the foot rail on the bar.

Falling past where the floor should have been.

I was falling into a tunnel of white light, waiting for the bottom to rise up and deck me.

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