Cowardly Loins

Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

JA’s bar is more subdued than an awkward moment at the Chronically Introverted Convention. Only the sound of healing gashes fill the musty, gin-soaked atmosphere. The hardwood floor looks like someone ran an industrial lawn aerator over it.

A pit bull I don’t recognize piddles on the leather shoe of a regular. My eyes seek out MG and the crew. They sit at the table reserved for playing Poker for Pills, but the steady flip of shuffling cards is stifled.

E. Ann wears what appears to a lemon-slice proof brassiere. Not only does it clash with her shoes, it makes her look fat.

There’s an empty chair and I fill it, nod and smile at her. “Outfit suits you.”

The latest issue of Spinetingler lies on the table. In the corner, I spot Sandra chatting up JA. For some reason, he sports a sheer negligee and bunny slippers as he meticulously cleans a glock. I decide not to ask.

Mindy picks her teeth with a blue pencil then uses it to tap the magazine. I see her name mentioned. Ah. yet another notch on her .45 Smith and Corona. I buy a round and offer sincere congratulations. “Start submitting,” she growls at us. “Chop chop!”

A chorus meekly mumbles, “Yes ma’am.”

Dana exhibits fewer tubes in less orifices than usual. Her ‘saline drip’ has a worm in it, and her thoughtful brown peepers scan a recent copy of Variety. A few dozen needles protrude from her body. They appear to be on fire. Thin wisps of smoke intertwine above the group, like braided hair. Dana’s acupuncturist lies on the floor nearby, sweat pooled about his prostrate body. The pitbull wanders over and decides he’s fair game.

“I’m dull.” E. Ann snivels into an overlarge wad of kleenex. “Desperately dull.”

This from a woman who once started an internet cult religion devoted to an actor’s ass. I shove a Pap Smear across the table towards her and hope the conversation improves.

“The Bitchy Bovines -” Dana increases the saline flow with a practiced motion, “offered to edit some of her stuff.” A waiter appears with another round of frothy drinks and a very large pair of women’s underwear. The logo reads; ‘Big Girl Panties. Get Over It & Get Into Them’. E. Ann tugs them off the tray, pulls them onto her head and sobs like a girl.

“They have this good cop/bad cop act.” M.G. says as she deftly signs an autograph for a fan, spits out an olive pit and edits her manuscript simultaneously. If ADD ever proves to be contagious, I’m gonna lick her face. It bothers me that I can only do one thing at a time. MG snags a triple martini as she dtext messages on her cell and adds, “It’s kinda cute, actually.”

“Boring.” E. Ann intones, making the panties ruffle. Her Pap Smear stands untouched. “Tedious. Tiresome. Dreary.”

“Get over it.” M.G.’s meaty yet delicate hand solidly cuffs the back of Ann’s head and sends the panties onto the face of the acupuncturist. “Read this and tell me if it makes sense.” She shoves a hefty manuscript in Ann’s direction. Ann obediently takes a pull of her drink, readjusts her brassiere and starts to scan the pages.

Her lips move as she reads. God, I hate that.

The pitbull sniffs at my shoe. I spill a generous portion of my tequila on the floor and am rewarded by the sounds of happy lapping. I open my mouth to ask, “Whose dog?” but suddenly there is sound of gunfire. The timing between the shots seemed almost lazy, as if an unmotivated sniper mailed in his assassination attempt.

“It’s just Number Two.” Dana points over to the bar with a soiled tongue depressor.

When I get out from under the table I see the source of the cracking sounds. As Number Two saunters by, her metal stilettos attack and dent the hardwood floor sharply. My eyes roam up the calves to the leg’s owners. My stunned orbs relay this image to my brain, which immediately wires back that the information simply cannot be correct. Please retransmit.

I blink.

A bright pink bullwhip, stained from use, hangs at her side along with a belt of fresh lemons. Her glossy, black leather ensemble is slashed strategically to divert attention from her mask, a custom platinum job in the shape of a razor. Her red nails are long, tough enough to puncture beer cans, the old-fashion sort, not the thin aluminum crap we have today.

“Number one is at the other end of the bar.” M.G. mumbles through the pencil in teeth. I note Number two’s partner, perched on a barstool wearing saucy Weekender togs accentuated with a purple feather boa. She holds a G&T in one hand and a well-thumbed Oxford College Thesaurus in the other.

“Talk about chalk and cheese.” E. Ann sniffs. Her pile of used Kleenex behind her is piling up and impeding the hallway to the bathrooms.

Dana hides a smirk. “Chalk and cheese? How cliché. Can’t you be more original, Ann?”

I bolt up and out of range. After things settle down I helped Dana remove the panties from her left nostril.

What can I say?
It’s a slow night.