by. Maurice Blocker
“There’s a hunger in this area,” said the man with crooked lips, one lazy — often gazing toward the left — bad right eye, a shifty unsettling stance, heavy rotund belly, and plump fingers. His voice was heavy and liquored and steamy with cigar smoke. “For drunken words, crazy line spacing, weird punctuation’s, slippery dialogue with mean punchy verbs, thick plots full of alcohol and murder, characters loose in morals injured by their imperfections heroed by their impulse for lustful pleasure and loved for their consistent inconsistency.” The man shook his body like a cold chill shot up his back. He cleared his throat with a mucusy cough and spit a wad of — what can only be described as turd brown — saliva onto the concrete. “These people whose belly turns over with hunger for this, they are, what I’d like to refer to as, let me think, what is it I call them…”
He looked up to the sky, the dirty ceiling of the bar, as if the words were up there floating around for him to see, or maybe he was hoping they’d fall down like a shooting star and hit him, preferably on his thick sweaty forehead, because I was becoming rather bored with his drunken rant. But, stay I did. Waiting for him to finish. Because drunken men with smelly breath and half thought of theories are the fillings of every bar that prides itself on their selection of domestic indie beers and hoppy knowledge. He took his eyes off the dirty ceiling and gazed wonderfully onto the C cup breasts that came strolling, more like staggering, clumsily too, but let us be kind, we’ll stick with strolling, to the front of the bar ranting on her cellphone about not being at a bar but at Tiffany’s. A lie-was-a brewing in that call and I too was inclined to look in that direction but the rest of the conversation became inaudible once she began to slur loudly about not being a liar and then covered up the cellphone and spoke very low into it. I’m sure in some soft soothing voice to help convince the person on the other end she was indeed, not a liar.
The man was not interested in her conversation or her particular thoughts on what exactly a liar may be. He was focused solely on her C cups, the tops of which were bulging out of her extremely small shirt and bra, both of which look like they belong to a person about three sizes smaller than her. When Ms. C cups turned away from us the man fixed his gaze onto her bottom. Two butt cheeks, not well balanced or relatively attractive in any sort of way other than the fact that you could see the bottom crease of her ass cheeks, tiny as they were, sticking out of her short short shorts. Again, another clothing item that looked like it too belonged to a person three times smaller, maybe she has a thirteen year old sister who she takes great pleasure in thefting her clothes and struggling mightily to squeeze into them. “Those people who hunger, they’re called what again?” I asked making sure to speak loud and clearly to ensure I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. But I did. Have to repeat myself that is.
“Those people who hunger, they’re called what again?” The man leered his lazy — looking slightly toward the left — right eye at me and spit out, literally, spit came out of his mouth as he said, “readers, or some shit like that.” He turned his head and faced me as he finished, thankfully, minus the spit. “Some ass hat of a writer I knew in college use to say that shit all the time to get chicks. Them litterer girls would get all gooey over that shit like he was really saying something.” By litterer I’m sure he was meaning literature or rather, literary. “And the thing about it was, the fucker never wrote shit. He may have finished two goddamn short stories the whole time in college. But if you asked him he was always working on his novel. Lazy fuck. That’s what he was. A lazy fuck.” And then he yelled out.. “Hey sweet tits, ya into titty fuckin” C cups turned around gave him the finger and went back to her conversation.
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