Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Ready Aim

Ready Aim
by Ronald Matthew Kelly
Copyright 2007


Outside the bar, well after closing time, I sat inside the Van of Doom, engine idling, watching Johnny Wraith as he walked across the parking lot. He was headed in the direction of the two mullet-heads who had so recently, and furiously, aroused his ire. They had mocked me in my recent distress, and it was his stated intention to reprimand them for their insolence. Johnny could not abide insult of any form; that it had been directed at me made no difference to him, as we were blood brothers. To his way of thinking, an insult to his friend was an insult to himself, and such insult must be avenged at all costs.

As he took he first steps towards the mullet heads, I heard him repeat the first line of what is reported to be Genghis Khan’s final address to his troops, his retirement speech if you will:

“The Greatest Joy is Victory!”

I recited the balance of the oration:

“To conquer one’s enemies… to deprive them of their property… to make their beloved weep… to embrace their wives and daughters… and to ride their horses!”

So strong was Johnny’s conviction that the greatest joy was indeed victory, I believe that he considered himself to be the lawyerly reincarnation of Genghis Khan! Thankfully, he was not a military man with dictatorial aspirations. As a lawyer he was fearsome enough!

As he crossed a concrete bordered strip of grass and shrubbery that divided the parking lot in half, I noticed just how dark the area was, the lights around the bar having been turned off just moments before. Light seeping in from the street beyond the parking lot provided some illumination, preventing total darkness.

I was still quite buzzed from my not inconsiderable intake of booze. However, the recent violent rejection, and subsequent regurgitation, of the more toxic elements of my nightly overindulgence (forming the basis for mullet-head mockery) had left me feeling more or less refreshed. As well being as extremely hungry. Comfortable as I was with Johnny’s ability to handle himself in any situation, I decided to move the Van of Doom closer to the action. Shifting into drive, I started over to where the mullet-heads were parked. Johnny was almost upon them.

Because the shrub divider prevented me from driving directly over, I realized I would have to circle the parking lot. For a few seconds, Johnny and the mullets would be hidden from my view. This made me nervous, but I realized that it would allow me to approach the mullets from behind, providing a tremendous tactical advantage, should such be necessary.

Just before rounding the last corner of the parking lot, Johnny and the mullets came into my view. By all appearances, all was well. But I sense that something is amiss. Now I see it! The mullets have adopted an aggressive stance, having separated themselves to either side in front of Johnny, who appears to be backing away from them. Not waiting to integrate this information, I floor the accelerator, and with engine roaring, round the final curve.

Aimed directly at the trio, my headlights wash over the scene. Something is definitely wrong! By spinning the wheel to the right while simultaneously applying the break, I slew the Van of Doom to the left and skid sideways to a halt, the driver’s side door directly behind the mullets, ten feet away.

All of this action takes less than three seconds to accomplish, so neither Johnny, nor the mullets have reacted yet. Good. Surprise is my ally.

Grabbing hold of the .38 caliber Colt Snub-nosed Detective Special I keep in the map pocket of the door, I very deliberately withdraw it from its resting place, point it out the window, carefully aim, and gently pull back on the hammer of the gun. The sound the hammer makes as it clicks into battery seems as loud as the gunshots that may soon follow. Maybe it sounds just as loud to Johnny and the mullets, as they all appear to be frozen in place. Is that a look of relief I detect on Johnny’s face?

“Freeze, assholes! Hands up!”

Two hands shoot skyward.

“Not you, Johnny, the other two assholes!”

Johnny drops his, but the hands of the mullets remain at their sides.

“I said, ‘Hands up.’ Now, show me a touchdown!”

Even under extreme stress, I cannot resist the funny. In football, two hands in the air signals a touchdown.

“You also said ‘Freeze, assholes!’ If we put our hands up, we’ll be moving.”

This came from one of the mullets. Reasonable man that I am, I had to admit that he had a point.

“Okay, my bad. Let’s try this again. “Hands up!”

Six hands shot skyward.

“Damn it, Johnny, NOT YOURS! Will you please quit fucking around, and move off to the side? I don’t want a through-and-through taking you out!”

Johnny dropped his arms, and moved to his right, away from the Camaro, out of my line of ready aim.

“Okay, now that everyone’s hands are in the right place, freeze, assholes!”

“Sorry, Ronald. I’m a little nervous. Isn’t that the gun I gave you?”

“The very one.”

“Ummm… you remember I told you it had a hair trigger?”

“Yeah, so what? I ain’t pointing it at you, and I sure don’t see it pointed at me.”

“Yeah, well, good point, but I’m just saying…”

“Okay, Johnny, message received. You hear that boys? This gun I have here, aimed at your backs, is possessed of a hair trigger. Sudden moves startle me, and when I get startled, my fingers clench up, and that would lead to a bloody accident. I don’t want any dead bodies by accident. If anyone has to end up dead, I want it to be a purposeful act. You boys understand me?”

As if they had rehearsed it, in unison they both replied,

“Yes, sir!”

Now that’s what I like. The proper respect for my authority!

“Johnny?”

“Yes, Ronald?”

“What’s going on here?”

“Well, as you know, I came over here to talk to these two fellows, regarding their recent acts of mockery towards you. I let them know that I didn’t appreciate what they had done, but frankly, they did not appear to be at all receptive to my point of view. I had the feeling that an apology would not be forthcoming. I also sensed that they were more than willing to offer me the opportunity to feel some pain, and possibly suffer some permanent injury. Now, notwithstanding my earlier assertion to you that I would have my boot on their necks and blood on my hands, it was beginning to appear to me that it might not go down that way.”

“Why’s that, Johnny? I’ve seen you handle men twice your size!”

“Well, that may well be, but all those other times I was sober.”

“Gotcha. “

“So, anyway, I’m thinking that I had better start making a strategic withdrawal when, all of a sudden, I made what could have been, except for your timely arrival upon the scene, a fatal error.”

“And what was that?”

“I leaned on the Camaro.”

“Oh.”

“The two mullets started to move in on me, and then you showed up. Boy, was I sure glad to see you poke your gun out the window!”

“Okay. Well, let me take it from here.”

I addressed the mullets.

“Hey, guys, look, I don’t want to unduly influence your answer by reminding you that I have a gun, with a hair trigger mind you, pointed at your backs, but if you don’t mind, has what my friend here pretty much summed up the totality of the circumstances?”

I get no response.

“What the hell… cat got your tongue? You gonna answer me, or what.”

Still no response.

“Ronald?”

“Yes, Johnny?”

“They’re mullets, and they probably don’t know what ‘totality of the circumstances’ means.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Let me try this again. Hey, dudes, is that the way the whole thing went down?”

“Yes, sir!”

At least they still respect my authority. Or the authority of my gun. Same thing really.

“Okay. What are your names, anyway.”

“TLoamrmryyl”

Again, as if rehearsed, they spoke in unison, blurring their names together.

“Try it again boys, one at a time.”

“LTaormrmyy”

“Okay, one more time, but this time, from right to left!”

Silence. Is it possible that these two yahoos don’t know left from right?

“Oh, this is really getting tedious! Johnny, do me a favor, point to one, and ask him his name, okay?”

“Sure, Ronald.”

Johnny pointed at the left-hand mullet, and asked him his name, which turned out to be Tommy.

“And the other?”

He pointed at the other, who seemed to be somewhat brighter than his buddy, as he gave his name without prompting.

“Larry.”

“Tommy, Larry, pleased to meet you, I’m Ronald, and this is my friend Johnny, who, of course you’ve already met.”

“Now, I know that it probably seems like time has just sped by since I came upon the scene, but honestly, we’ve wasted about four pages of this story since I got here, just to establish what happened, and to get your names.”

“Now, I’m a reasonable man, but I think we really need to wrap this up. I want to resolve this situation with a minimum of bloodshed, as well as eliminate any possibility for revenge on your part. So here’s what I want you to do.”

“First off, Larry, I want you to give me the name of your probation officer.”

“How’d you know I was on probation?”

“I didn’t, but it seemed like a reasonable guess. See, I’m in the justice business, and you seemed to have the stink of petty criminality on you. So what’s his name?”

“Why, what are you gonna do?”

“Larry, I’m beginning to get a hand cramp. You don’t want my fingers spazzing, do you? It could get ugly!”

“No.”

“Okay, then. So what’s your PO’s name?”

“Allen H####.”

(Larry gave me Allen’s full name, but I’d prefer that he’d remain anonymous. Allen probably wants it that way, too.”)

“Good news, Larry, I know Mr. H. He’s a pretty understanding sort of man, but he sure isn’t going to understand why you’re out this late, consuming alcohol, and about to drive a car. Like I said, I’m in the biz, and I know that right now you are in violation of the terms and conditions of your probation. What will Allen do if I tell him I met you?”

“Uh… probably violate my probation?”

“Gee, Larry, you got it right in one.”

“Are you gonna do that?”

“Not if you and Tommy follow my instructions to the letter. Do you think you can do that?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, Tommy?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, man, I don’t want to leave you out of the negotiations. You heard what I said to Larry? That I won’t rat him out to his PO if you two cooperate? You gonna go along with that?”

“Why should I, I’m not on probation.”

“Hey, Larry, you hear that? Seems to me that Tommy really doesn’t care what happens to you. Some friend, huh?”

Larry glanced over at Tommy, and started to speak,

“Tommy…”

“Never mind, Larry, I think I know a way to deal with this issue. Johnny?”

“Yes, Ronald?”

“Help Tommy see the light, if you would, please.”

“How do you mean…”

“Johnny, remember what Ghengis Khan said? The greatest joy is victory, and all that?”

“Oh yeah.”

Johnny walked up to Tommy, and delivered a crushing blow to his snot-locker. As the blood poured down his face, Johnny kneed him in the groin. Tommy fell over, groaning, and writhing in pain, But Johnny was not yet finished. Placing his foot upon Tommy’s neck, he asked if a simple question.

“Is it over, Tommy?”

Johnny waited several seconds, but got no response. He gently applied pressure to Tommy’s neck, and repeated his question.

“Is it over, Tommy?”

This time Tommy nodded his head.

“Yeah, I thought so. Ronald?”

“Yes, Johnny?”

“Tommy has decided he wants to cooperate.”

“Good. Larry?”

“Yes, sir?”

Still respectful, after all that had happended. I was beginning to like this guy.

“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen. We’re going to leave you and Tommy in a minute or so. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. I won’t call your PO, if you guys just get the hell out of here, and never come back to this bar. Ever. Don’t look back, don’t try to follow us, and don’t ever tell anyone what happened here. Okay?”

“Sure thing, man!”

“Somehow, I’m not completely convinced of your sincerity. Frankly, I think you may be tempted to look for revenge after we leave, and things have cooled down a bit. Among other things, you might decide to call the cops, and tell them what happened here. Hell, I might be tempted to do the same, if I we’re in your shoes.”

“I mean, after all, when you get right down to it, just on the strength of my good friend Johnny’s word, I held you at gunpoint and threatened to kill you, both actions being certainly illegal. Also, I promised to not to report you your PO, which is not only unethical, but reflects poorly upon my professionalism. And, to top it all off, I incited Johnny here to administer a beat down to poor old Tommy, because he was to dumb to see it coming.”

“So… it really wouldn’t surprise me if you were to call the police after all. But I wouldn’t recommend it. You know why, Larry?”

“Uh… why?”

“Like I said before, I’m in the biz. And you’re on probation. And I tell a better story. Who do you think the cops are gonna believe? Who do you think they’re going to WANT to believe? Get my point?”

“I think so.”

“So we’re done here?”

“I guess.”

“Good. Johnny?”

“Yes, Ronald?”

“Is Tommy still among the land of the living?”

“He appears to be.”

“Well, say goodbye, and get in the van.”

Johnny started towards the van.

“Tommy?”

“Yes, sir?” I could tell it was an effort for Tommy to speak. But that’s what happens to people who get lippy.

“You hear what I told Larry?”

“Yeah.”

“Are we done here, then?”

“I guess so.”

“Fine. Have a nice night!”

As Johnny was walking over to the passenger side of the Van of Doom, I gave a last piece of advice to Larry.

“Hey Larry… for what it’s worth, it’s not nice to make fun of people.”

Johnny got in the van, and closed his door.

“You just never know how they’re going to react. You know what I mean?”

Larry just looked at me. I could tell he didn’t really didn’t like the way his evening had ended. But I could also tell that he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. We’d never see him around the bar again.

I pulled my arm through the window, and replaced the gun in its holster. Placing the Van of Doom in reverse, I back away from the Camaro. Larry walked over to Tommy, and bent down to help him up.

Placing the van in drive, I made my way to the street.

“Well, Johnny, what shall we do now?”

“Ronald, what do we always do after a night of honky-tonk debauchery?”

Turning left onto the street, I replied,

“Jack in the Box it is, then! I can hear those Jumbo Jacks calling me now!”

Merging with traffic, I pressed down on the accelerator. The Van of Doom responded with a surge of power.

“Do me a favor, okay, Johnny?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Put your seatbelt on. You know how I feel about respect for the law.”

My stomach rumbled. It would soon be satisfied.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Cuba Libre

Cuba Libre
by Ronald Matthew Kelly
Copyright 2007


As I had done for so many nights that they stretched without number into my past, like some giant Anaconda from the deepest reaches of the Amazon jungle, I walked into Group Therapy promptly at eight p.m., joining the usual cohort of regular members. Here at last I would find relief from the pressures of the world.

For those heretofore unaware of my history, allow me to be upfront with you. I have severe characters of defect. Were you to meet me in person, if the sun were still in the sky, you might not notice these defects right away, if ever. During the day, like a vampire hides from the light, I refrain from expressing who I really am. But the pressures build, and at the end of the day, when I have accomplished all that I can in the nine to five grind of the workaday world, I retreat to my spiritual oasis, that I may find rest, and recuperation. I renew myself with a session of Group Therapy.

Here in Group Therapy I will be allowed to unburden myself from the weight of the world, to express myself without fear of the judgments of others. Here I will be loved for who I am. Here I am allowed to be what I truly am I. Here I would be supported and sustained by those who understand my Quest to be all that I can truly be. With all the respect, understanding, and love that only those so afflicted as I am can give.

I make my way to my usual perch, third from the corner closest to the door, two empty seats to my left, and one to my right, reserved as they always were, with an excellent view of the entire room. My more than ample rear end had barely made an impression on the stool when tonight’s session facilitator, Suzy Q, approached, surely to offer her usual encouraging kind words of greeting, to and enquire how she might be of service in fulfilling my needs.

“Hey, Ronald, right on time, just like clockwork. I’m so glad to see you. So what will you have tonight? The usual?”

“Actually, Suzy, on my way over here, I thought I would start slow, perhaps with a glass of Bud Light. But now that I’ve arrived, I’ve decided that only turtles and grandmas should take it slow. To Hell with the consequences! Damn the torpedoes, and full steam ahead! You may serve me when ready, Gridley, and don’t stop till you see the whites of my eyeballs, as they roll up into my skull! Tempus Fugit, and Sic Transit Gloria!”

Suzy grinned, rolling her eyes at my soliloquy.

“So you’re saying you want the usual?”

“Yeah, Suzy… that’ll be fine.”

“Okay, one double Bacardi 151 rum and coke, ‘con limon,’ coming right up!”

I loved it when she spoke in a foreign tongue!

As Suzy drifted away towards the drink prep station at the other end of the bar, I admired the way she swayed back and forth as she moved, hinting at the delectable ass that must surely be hidden beneath the skirt she was wearing. If the truth be told, and here at Group Therapy, it always was, I believed that I would give anything to see that ass in all it’s naked glory.

Legend has it that I had had such an experience one night, when Suzy was bored and had invited me back to her place after closing the bar. However, since I had been to inebriated to remember anything between walking into her bedroom, and the bowl of cold cereal she served me in the morning, sadly, it must remain a legend. Sadder still, she had not invited me to repeat the experience. Had I been too much man for her? Or not nearly enough? I cannot say, and fear the consequences of speculation. “Veni, vidi, vici?” Who’s to say, for I cannot recall.

She placed the libation in front of me, asking,

“Will Johnny be joining you tonight? Shall I have one ready for him?”

I looked at her deadpan.

She stared back.

In unison, we both laughed.

“Sorry, Ronald… bit of a brain fart there. For a moment, I forgot who I was talking to. Please excuse me.”

The look on her face was adorable, so I gazed with adoration upon it.

“Its okay, Suze, happens to everyone at times. I mean, look at me: vainly imagining that that I might start the evening with a mere glass of beer!”

She laughed. I nearly swooned, intoxicating as her laughter was!

“Yeah… he called earlier, and said he would be about five minutes late, so you might as well get his ready right now…”

“Okay. Should I start a tab?”

“…and go head and start a tab.”

We both grinned like fools, she for the absurdity of her question, me because I was treated to the view of her bottom as she walked away.

Sic Transit Suzy.

***

Several years ago, before I had sunk completely into the despair and degradation that my life had become as the result with living with the invader in my skull (A pituitary tumor, in case you were unaware of this fact. But that’s another story.), Johnny Wraith and I used to hang out together… quite a lot, as a matter of fact. So much so, that if at any time neither one of us was working, sleeping, pooping, performing various acts of self-love, carousing with the opposite sex, or recovering from over-indulging in our various vices, it was almost a certainty that we were hanging out together. To the uninitiated observer, it may have seemed like hanging out together was our only reason for existing. Such an existence would not be unfulfilling from my point of view.

Not that we were in love with each other, because I can assure that that was not, and is not, the case. But we were really good friends, blood brothers, even, who, at that time in our lives, found each other’s company to be more stimulating and fulfilling than the company of almost anyone else, hookers and other degenerates excepted. And because we were who we were, the consumption of alcohol was almost always central to our activities together. Actually, if the truth be told, and as I have said before, at Group Therapy it always was, the consumption of alcohol was ALWAYS central to our activities together. Dare I say it? Alcohol was our Third Amigo.

Many a night, most of them, in fact, would find us down out at Group Therapy, our favorite, and most appropriately named, watering hole. From sundown to closing time, there we’d be, consuming near-fatal quantities of alcoholic beverages, all the while singing karaoke songs, and dancing with the local Daughters of the American Revolution.

Actually, I did the singing, while Johnny would sit at the bar, or with a group of floozies, with a goofy look on his face, as he slowly succumbed to the effects of the booze. As for the Daughters of the American Revolution, well, sadly, no such animal was to be found at Group Therapy.

So we made do with what we had: hookers, sluts, nurses and other tramps, all of whom we thoroughly despised. But, hey, the potter works with the clay that he has.

At the time, our cocktail of choice was the venerable double Bacardi 151 rum and coke with lime. Yes, I know that the proper name for such a libation is Cuba Libre, but this was not the sort of establishment where such pretensions went unnoticed, or for that matter, physically unpunished. But, throwing caution to the wind, I will hereafter use the term Cuba Libre, because I find I have grown beyond the fear of appearing pretentious or being on the wrong side of a pair of fists. As to the former, well, I am what I am. As to the latter, you’ll have to find me first. Then we’ll talk.

Chosen it because it was possessed of a certain quality, the Cuba Libre was IT for us. Tasty? To be sure, it was that, but then so are many other cocktails.

Consider the Tequila Sunrise, the Margarita, and the Strawberry Daiquiri. Are these not tasty beverages in their own right? But taste alone does not confer “most favored beverage status” upon a cocktail in our world.

To say the Cuba Libre would get us drunk it a truthful statement, but drunkenness is the natural result of the consumption of any alcohol. This was not our fascination.

The fact of the matter was it was cheap. As a matter of fact, relative to the other offerings of the bar, it was quite the alcoholic bargain. One could say it was our alcoholic Holy Grail. We certainly did. Sir Percival’s single-minded devotion to the service of HIS quest for the Holy Grail paled by comparison to how we devotedly we serviced OUR grail, once we had found it!

Allow me to explain.

At Group Therapy, a “well” drink (so called because it contains a generic alcohol, for example, rum, which is poured from a bottle stored in a well below the bartender’s drink mixing station) was priced at two dollars and fifty cents. To specify a particular brand of alcohol, thereby creating, appropriately, a “call” drink, one was charged an additional fifty cents. Going further, and requesting a double measure of alcohol was only one more dollar. Thus, a standard rum and coke, (‘con limon’, let us not forget) was two dollars and fifty cents, while our favorite double Bacardi 151 cocktail was only a dollar-fifty more.

But hidden in the transaction is the power of the proof. The alcoholic proof, that is. You see, standard rum, whether no-name house, or branded Bacardi, generally has an alcoholic proof of 80, while Bacardi 151 is almost double that, at 151-proof.

(Yes, I know that explaining that Bacardi 151 is a 151-proof alcohol is somewhat tedious, when it should be patently obvious that Bacardi 151 is, in fact, a 151-proof alcohol. But, let’s be fair: to some few individuals, this is all new information: I feel I would be doing a disservice to these readers if my explanation was not complete in every detail. I therefore do not feel the least bit guilty for burdening you in this fashion, if you in fact feel so burdened. Get over it.)

So let us “do the math”, as they say, whoever They are.

Counting one well drink containing generic 80-proof rum as one “dose” of booze, the Bacardi 151, at nearly double the proof, must count as (near enough) two doses of booze, while a double Bacardi 151 clocks in at an incredible four doses! Four times the kick at less than double the price? Well, of course, we signed on to that plan immediately!

Not that we were cheap. It’s just that Johnny was in grad school at the time, had limited funds, and so was forced by circumstances to be thrifty. And I was, in the words of the great George Costanza, “Very careful with my money.” (Well, what degenerate, semi-alcoholic, chain-smoking, compulsive gambler with narcissistic issues wouldn’t be? But that’s another topic, for another story. Stay tuned.)

If we were to pretend that this was an infomercial, this would be the moment where I, as your host, would exclaim,

“But wait! There’s more!”

So allow me to say,

“But wait! There’s more!”

Lest we be exposed for the selfish bastards that we were, and believe me, we were (why would I lie about this?), we felt compelled to share the wealth of the economy of alcohol. From the money that we saved on the cost of our drinks, we would leave much larger tips. Needless to say, bartenders everywhere loved us for our largess. And why wouldn’t they? Its barely more work to construct a double over a single, just an additional upending of the bottle, barely a second or two of time.

Prior to our discovery that more equals less, which is to say we could have more booze for less cost, Johnny and I would generally limit ourselves. Afterwards, the sky was the limit. Our Blood Alcohol Limit, that is.

So the double Bacardi 151Cuba Libre was our alcoholic staple. Until such time as we discovered Everclear, which is the subject of yet another story.

***

As Suzy returned with Johnny’s drink, the great man himself sat down to my left, leaving one open stool to HIS left, as I had to MY Right, in hopes that soon we would have companionship of the feminine form, one to MY right, and one to HIS left.

“Hey, Ronald, I see you’ve started without me, asshole!”

It was his standard greeting, but Suzy rose to my defense.

“Mind your manners, Johnny, I’ll have none of that! This is his first.”

Placing his drink before him, she continued.

“And, gentleman that he is, he ordered one for you. So behave yourself!”

This last being delivered with a tone of mock severity.

“Thanks, Suzy. Touché!”

“Okay, then. Let me know when you’re ready for another round. It’ll be on the house.”

(And why not? Surely our monthly tab alone would service the bar’s lease!)

Suzy smiled, turned, and walked away. Both Johnny and I admired her bottom as she left us.

“Tell me the truth, Ronald. You hit that, didn’t you?”

“Johnny, as I have said so many times before, I truly do not recall.”

“”I know, I know… ‘Bedroom, breakfast, blank!’”

“No doubt… hey, that’s a nice little alliteration you have there! It’s also a mnemonic, who’s only purpose is to remind me of that which I can’t remember. Somewhat ironic, wouldn’t you say, Johnny?”

“Yeah… I would. Cheers, by the way.”

Our glasses clinked.

“Cheers!”

Johnny looked at me with a mischievous grin.

“So, what’s on the agenda for tonight, Ronald?”

I matched his grin with one of my own.

“The usual, of course… the usual!”

Our glasses clinked again. In unison we cried,

“TO DEGENERACY!”

Draining our glasses, we banged them down on the bar.

“Suzy!” I cried.

She looked over, grinning.

“Another round, ‘por favor!’”

And so the night began...

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Vox Vomitus

Vox Vomitus
by Ronald Matthew Kelly
Copyright 2007


“Bwaaaugh!”

This is as close as I can come to rendering into English the sound of my alcoholic retching.

As I lean against my car, in the dimly lit parking lot of my favorite honky-tonk, my stomach heaving, I think to my self:

“Well Ronald, here you are at nearly one thirty in the morning, having once again closed the bar. Once again you have abused your body to its’ limits. Far too much alcohol. Way too many cigarettes. Not nearly enough sleep. Why do you punish yourself in this fashion? What have you to show for your efforts, but high blood pressure and low self-esteem? You’ve wasted another precious day and its’ companion night, spent as if mere pennies from the never-empty pockets of an oil tycoon. What is to become of you? What is the world to think of you?”

My questions are asked in vain, as I answer myself not. Or were they rhetorical? Who can say?

Of course, were the day and the night actually pennies in the pocket of an oil tycoon, he would never miss them. Hell, if they were pennies in my pocket, I would never miss them, and I’m betting that you, my Gentle Reader, would likewise never miss them, were they but small copper coins. Like pennies in a wishing well. Or from heaven.

But the days and nights of our lives are not pennies, though we might treat them as such. Most of us spend them as if they were of no consequence, or occurred in never ending abundance. The supply of our days and nights is not infinite: we would do well to treat them as if their value was. Sadly, however, I suspect that most of us do just the opposite.

Pennies in a wishing well. Pennies from heaven.

As I have gotten older, but sadly, not much wiser, I have come to realize that each day that I have left upon this earth has more value than any number of pennies, in fact, infinitely greater value than even an ingot of pure silver, or even gold bullion. Does this mean I spend them wiser? Sadly, this is not so. All I have gained is the knowledge of all the time I’ve wasted, all the time I’m likely to waste in the future, and the ease with which I accomplish my wasting.

But what does this have to do with the story at hand? It has nothing to do with the story at hand. The truly wise have already discarded this story, for they see it for what it is: a tremendous waste of time. It’s just my way of wasting time, while appearing to look busy. If you were in the room with me as I wrote these few paragraphs, you would say to yourself,

“Look at him there, busily typing away at his computer. See the look of such intense concentration he has upon his face. I can’t wait to read what he has written. I’m sure it will be a work of great importance. Or, if it is not an important work, then surely it will have great entertainment value.”

The clever among you have already figured that this will not be a great work. But even the clever among you may be entertained, if stories of drunken debauchery are what you crave. Most especially if stories of drunken debauchery are what you crave. Either way, it is my fervent hope that you will stay with me, and read on.

Bwaaaugh! (More retching)

I’m alone with my thoughts as I lean against my vehicle, the appropriately named “Van of Doom”, while simultaneously discarding the night’s intake of booze.

But I am not alone in reality. Johnny Wraith is my faithful companion tonight, as he is on many such occasions. He is Sancho to my Don Quixote, Tonto to my Lone Ranger, Bud Abbott to my Lou Costello. We are brothers in blood, sometimes brothers in arms.

But what we are now, mostly, are the bastards sons of the unholy union of cheap booze and unquenchable thirst. Throw in a carton of unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes and you’ve got one really bitchin’ ménage-a-trois!

Bwaaaaaauuuugh!

A truly gargantuan puddle of multi-hued vomit appears at my feet, splashing up onto the driver’s door panel of the Van of Doom. It appears to me, in my alcoholic fuzz, that all the colors of the rainbow are represented here. Is this a reaffirmation of God’s promise to never flood the Earth again? No. It is but a simple reminder of all the Jello Shooters I had consumed this past evening. Over-indulgence has its’ painful consequences.

“Johnny?”

I get no response.

“Johnny?”

Again no response is forthcoming. I am confused. I see him standing right next to me. He’s looking right at me! Why is my faithful Sancho not responding to my inquiry? Can he not hear me? Has my faithful companion through countless nights of unspeakable debauchery been struck deaf from an overdose of booze and over-loud honky-tonk music? Or merely stunned by the sheer magnitude of vile liquid exiting my cakehole?

It is then that I consider that perhaps our communication failure is not his fault. Rewinding my internal tape recorder, I review its’ contents. The problem is revealed. It is not that he did not hear me speak; surely he had. However, he could not know that the sounds coming out of my mouth were intended to represent human speech.

What had been formed by my mouth and lips as “Johnny?” had come out of my mouth and proceeded to my ears as…

“BwJohauuuughnny?”

Vox Vomitus… The Voice of Vomit.

The information in my speech had been hijacked by the contents of my mouth. It’s rude to talk with your mouth full. Especially when it’s full of recycled Jello and booze. I remember my manners, but forget my circumstances. Swallowing, I re-recycle the already recycled. What the hell, I paid for it. Maybe this time it will stay down.

It does. A miracle indeed!

I clear my throat, and try again.

“Johnny?”

“Yes, Ronald?”

“Once again, having spent my night consuming mass quantities of alcohol, smoking cigarettes unnumbered, and performing eloquent renditions of “Just a Gigolo”, “Trashy Women” and my personal anthem, “Friends in Low Places”, I must conclude that in the past twenty-four hours, indeed possibly my entire life, I have not accomplished anything of great meaning, and have not added one jot or tittle to the sum of all human knowledge and wisdom, with the possible exception of proving by the most rigorous scientific means that a spoon is superior to a knife for extracting the last bit of peanut butter from a jar. Surely this is evidence that I am indeed the degenerate’s degenerate.”

“What say yooooouuuuaaaagh…”

I retch, punctuating my question. A bit of Jello Shooter splashes onto the cuff of Johnny’s trousers. He looks at me with affection. Or is it disgust? Generally, the two emotions are interchangeable on his face.

“Well of course, having not met all the degenerates that have ever lived in the gutter, dying by drowning in a puddle of their own vomit, I cannot absolutely confirm your assertion. However, I can state without fear of contradiction, that of all the degenerates that I have met, and I have met quite a few, too many to count or hope to name, you are the most degenerate. I am confident, too, that on the great day when the Honor Roll of All-time Degeneracy is finally collated and published, you will appear no lower on the list than Honorable Mention.”

This is why I love Johnny. In my moments of vanity, he always manages to bring me back to Earth, by reminding me that it is likely that others may have surpassed me in my achievement…

“But you’re young yet. I still have hope, that if you stay the course, you’ll claim the Gold Medal. That’s certainly an accomplishment worth striving for, Ronald! Not to mention the whole peanut butter and spoon thing. Good call on that one, by the way.”

…while still helping me believe my goals are attainable. My heart swells with brotherly love, for Johnny is my true blood brother.

“So what shall we do now, Johnny?”

“What do we always do when we find ourselves in similar circumstances, Ronald?”

“Jack-in-theBox it is. Saddle up. Let’s ride.”

“Just a moment, Ronald. I sense some unfinished business. Do you see those guys over there?”

“You mean those mullet-headed rednecks standing next to the turd brown Camaro?”

“The very ones.”

“What about them?”

“Well, just a few minutes ago, while you were barfing, they were imitating you. Every time you heaved, they heaved… by the way, that last splash… the one that looked like a Jello rainbow? That was totally awesome! I truly admire the talent it takes to make such a puke painting. It reminded me of God’s promise to never again flood the earth. I must commend you for the purity of your artistic vision.”

After such fulsome praise, I had not the heart to tell Johnny that the Jello rainbow, though impressive in scope, was merely an accidental by-product of my alcoholic overindulgence. I was not in control of the design. Anyway, who am I to burst the bubble of his admiration? Besides, I’m a total attention whore. His words were gold in the purse of my pride.

“Why, thank you, Johnny. You know I always strive for excellence.”

You cannot imagine the effort it took to deliver this last line with absolutely no trace of guile on my face. The price we pay for vanity.

“I know you do, Ronald. It’s just one of the many reasons I hold you in such high esteem, low as you may esteem yourself.”

Ouch… busted.

“Now where was I? Oh, yes, now I remember. Those two douche-bags were imitating you in your distress. They were mocking you. If there is something I cannot abide, it is someone mocking my friend. That’s my job. I cannot have my position usurped by these two poseurs. I must take action!”

(By the way, there may be those among you who may doubt that our speech patterns were such an incongruous mixture of bathroom and boardroom. Allow me to assure you that I have accurately recorded our conversation with high fidelity. Strange as it seems, even to me while reading these my own words, we always spoke in such a fashion. Pendantic assholes that we are.)

Johnny turned from me, and took a step towards the Turdmobile and its’ owners.

I called after him.

“Oh, Johnny, let it go. What do you expect of mullet-heads? I didn’t see or hear them. I was not offended. Besides, I’m hungry, and the Box is waiting for us. I hear a loaded Jumbo Jack calling my name. Saddle up, trooper. Get in the van. Let it go. Dinner awaits us, my faithful Sancho!”

Johnny paused, turning back to me.

“Just a minute, Ronald. It doesn’t matter that you weren’t offended. An offense against my friend is an offense against me. To mock you is to mock me. To poke at the dignity of the person of my blood brother is to poke at the dignity of my person, and you know how I feel about people poking me. I must avenge my friend, for in avenging you, I will have avenged myself. I must have their blood on my hands, and my boot on their necks!”

Johnny began to turn back to his task at hand. Pausing again, he said,

“But do me a favor, will you? Warm up the Van of Doom. We may have to make a quick exit. No doubt the police will be interested in my handiwork, and I have no desire to discuss my motives or methods with them.”

With that, he saluted me, in the style of a Roman legionnaire, turned away, and resumed his march to battle. I heard him begin to recite Genghis Kahn’s famous farewell speech to his troops…

“The greatest joy is Victory! To conquer one’s enemies…”

Fishing my keys out of my pocket, I opened the door to the Van of Doom, sat in the well worn driver’s seat, and fired up the engine. While it idled, I watched Johnny on his Quest.

Sorry for the pun. I couldn’t help it. You know how it is…