Eddie the Wrangler

He sat at the bar with a grin on his face. There weren't too many
thoughts floating around his head, and that was the way he liked it.
Too much thinking could get a man in trouble, as he often found when he
had too much to drink. Sometimes you sit around and wonder where your
friends are, those old chums who took off and were supposed to come
back in a week but must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Or maybe you
consider how ridiculous your current vocation seems in the whole scheme
of things.
Good old Eddie. Eddie the wrangler, the man at the bar.
The Belle Dame was no different from any of those bars that you could
picture in your mind. This was not New York City. There were no gags to
get people to enter. There were no two for one specials on drinks.
There was no happy hour. It was a small town. There were only four bars
to quench the thirst of the locals. You could always count the
whorehouse, they always had plenty of liquor. But Eddie never went to
the whorehouse.
As bars go it was rather uninspiring. There were no great adornments
on the walls, no bumper stickers littering the bathroom or even drunken
scrawl on the arms of chairs. It was plain and simple a place to come
to get plowed. A place to get raucous and raunchy and fight and vomit.
This was a place where you could actually go into the corner and
urinate without getting thrown out.
Now the people didn't discriminate. It wasn't that there was a fear of
outsiders or difference. Heck, when outsiders did stop by, they were
often treated quite kindly. But there were certain rules. They were
just unspoken and they hovered about the air like tiny hammers ready to
lash out at those who could not abide by their almighty
authority.
The building had once been home to a tailor, years and years before.
But as the life of the town had died and people began to purchase new
clothing at the chain store that had barged its way in without much
concern, the business had died. When the bar opened there had been few
if any changes made. No painting had taken place. There were no
fixtures replaced. In fact, all of the old sewing machines were still
in the backroom, covered with a thick layer of dust.
The bar itself appeared to be oak. That is appeared to be oak. In fact
it was elegantly molded ply wood that had been covered with faux oak
covering that gave it a rather folksy, trailer park look, if you will.
It was located on the left, if you faced the back of the building about
three feet from the front door, an improbable oddly shaped contraption
that truly didn't close all the way and had to be bolted shut with a
several two by fours. There were about twenty tables carelessly strewn
about with two or three chairs at each of them, and ash trays placed
carefully in the center. Several pin ball machines lined the right wall
of the establishment, and in the back was the stage, which was not so
much a stage but a space that was kept free from tables, and was always
littered with cigarette butts.
It was not uncommon for patrons to receive their drinks in glasses that
had not been cleaned since the gold rush. But no one ever returned a
drink. At least not any locals. Cobwebs hung like streamers from the
corners of the bar. No one seemed to notice them much anymore,
particularly the people who worked there. A big stink had never been
made about the dust and dirt that pervaded every nook and cranny of the
establishment.
The smell of vomit always seemed to hang in the air mixing with the
humidity to complete the rather unappealing setting. Perhaps the more
sophisticated drinker would have been turned off, but most of the
locals ignored it.

It was a normal Thursday night, save the fact that it was just before
Easter. There was sin in the air as thick as molasses and he was
waiting for the night to begin. Most people around town didn't much
care for the restrictions that holidays often place upon the
individual, though. They would show their faces around town to imbibe
the sweetness of alcohol.
Eddie sat at the bar as though stoned. Edward P. Mohogany. He was
descended from a long line of Mohogany's, stretching back to almost the
18th Century in this country. None of them had ever been successful.
They had spent most of their time going from job to job, hoping that
someone in the family tree would somehow get rich. But none of them
ever had. It wasn't that they were a dumb family. Quite the contrary,
in fact. They were an intelligent people, but had little initiative.
They were always the ones at the back of town meetings or sleeping
through church or lazing the away the day with a drink in hand.
Eddie was just such a man. There had never been much desire in his
muscles to put forth an effort worthy of advancement. It was not that
his brain did not carry the thoughts of the CEO or the Congressman, it
was that he literally could not force his body and his mind to move
beyond the slow call of duty. In all that he had seen and read when he
was younger, he could not imagine himself in a position other than on
he bottom.
He was just under 25, balding on top, but still maintained the slight
mullet in the back. His eyes were a little close together, and
sometimes when they crossed he could see his eyelashes. The nose on his
face was nothing spectacular, similar to that of many poor, rural men,
and is often a sign used to label them unjustly. It was straight and
nostrily, pointed up ever so slightly at the end. His mouth always
seemed to be on the verge of asking a question, although those who knew
him were aware that Eddie never really had that many questions for
anybody. Jeans a tee-shirt, and Toronto Blue Jays baseball cap were his
standard attire for work, which was primarily loading and unloading
crates over at the dock for small ships that came in, mostly regional
fishermen. It was spring again, and work had picked up quite a bit.
Full days were not unusual. Generally he awoke at about six in the
morning and worked until almost seven in the evening. After work he
always came to the bar.
He did not have a family to go home to. There wasn't even a prospect
of a family. Eddie had not given up hope however, and his nightly
drinking lent itself to the occasional grab or feel. Of course the
women were not usually ones to oblige, and he was often the recipient
of a slap or even a punch. Just the week before his life had been
threatened by a hulk of a man whose woman he had goosed on the dance
floor. But he took the good with the bad, and felt strongly that one
day, there would be someone to return his affection.
That was precisely what Eddie was waiting for at the moment. There
were a few women who sauntered in, most of them with men in polo shirts
and khaki pants. They were not his style and he knew it. The morsel of
contempt that Eddie the wrangler did hold in his body was reserved for
just such people. Those who looked down their rural noses at him as
though their liberal arts degree and collared shirt had made them
Brahmins. So he sat and drank his drinks broodingly. Cheap beer was his
drink, and that night they were having a special on longnecks. He
pursed his lips after every sip as though he actually enjoyed the
bitter, watery taste.
It was no longer a time for Eddie when beer tasted the way it should.
The first beer is always the best with its strangely august flavor of
alcohol and hops. Sitting in the Seven-Eleven parking lot in high
school, there had been plenty to consume. He and his friends would sit
and drink, and talk prosaically about cars and hot chicks and leaving.
But Eddie never had left, and the bar was his one real connection to
the outside world, and the beer had begun to taste like water. It was
refreshing, quenching, life giving, a reaffirmation of himself.
On the outskirts of town in the little runnysack that he called a home,
there was nothing but a bed and a couple of chairs, a beat up couch and
a picture of his parents. He never did get a picture of his brothers,
and though there was a phone it never rang. Eddie thought about all of
this as he sipped the longneck, staring ahead placidly.
The bartenders were a bit wary of Eddie because of his antics. They
had on occasion asked him to leave when his behavior got out of hand.
However, they knew that he wasn't a bad chap, and after all, he tipped
them quite well. It was that and that alone that kept him from being
banned. Nearly half of Eddie's salary went to that bar, and the keeps
knew it.
As the beer flowed down his throat and his glances were thrown at the
door, there was a man who sat down next to Eddie. He was an unusual
looking man, rather squat and sallow looking. He had no hair at all,
and a tiny nose piercing. It looked rather infected, and one could
almost make out a glimmer of puss. Even more odd than the disgusting
puss was the tattoo on the man's forehead. Not many people have
tattoo's on their forehead, and this man's was particularly peculiar.
It was in thin letters and had been somewhat faded with time, but it
quite clearly said, "FUCK." In no way was the job professionally done.
It looked as though the tattoo had been drawn rather inexpertly by the
man himself, perhaps staring in a mirror. But maybe it had been done in
jail, using one of those ramshackle devices that seem to supply most of
the tattoos in the pen. The man ordered a Sierra Nevada and drank it
quickly. He lit a filterless cigarette and exhaled a great cloud of
smoke right in Eddie's direction.
Eddie was not much of a smoker. He had given it up when he was 18,
just after he had graduated from high school. It was a costly habit,
and Eddie was not one who could throw money around. His vice was
drinking, and he stuck with it religiously. So when the smoke was blown
in his direction, Eddie was non too pleased.
"Say friend," he said as he turned his head from the door slightly,
"would you mind not blowing that smoke in my face?" He gave the man a
smile to make aware that he was not looking for any sort of trouble,
only that the smoke bothered him.
The man grunted and took another drag of his cigarette. This time when
he exhaled, though, the man blew it in the opposite direction. Pleased
with his assertiveness, Eddie returned his attention to the door.
About that time entered a woman of stunning beauty. Eddie had seen her
before in the bar, but had never worked up the courage to feel her up.
She was taller than Eddie and had short cropped blonde hair. She wore
it pinned up with bobbie pins. Her face was free of make-up and her
features were not unlike those of Marilyn Monroe, thought Eddie. There
was a bikini top that barely covered her young body in the most
important places. She wore a pair of teeny weeny shorts out of which
her long, brownish orange, smooth legs radiated in the dim light as
though someone had just brought in the Hope diamond and set it in the
middle of the floor. She looked around, craning her neck from side to
side, looking for some mysterious being. Eddie sighed.
"Makes a man wanna holler," said the man sitting next to Eddie. They
both chuckled a little and swiveled their heads so that they could
watch the woman pass. She sat down at a table by herself and ordered a
glass of white wine from the waiter who came to her table.
"Say buddy," said the man sitting next to Eddie, "you know where a
fella can get a piece of ass in this town?"
Eddie turned to face the gentlemen and was struck when he looked at
the tattoo. He hadn't noticed it before, at least not
consciously.
"Uh, yeah, yeah." Eddie was stumbling over his words. Trying to link
together two coherent sentences didn't prove itself so easy when
presented with a ferocious, tattooed freak. "There's a ho house round
here. It's up there by 24, you know, just off James Road. It's clear as
daylight. But I don't go 'round there. Nope. Them ho's has diseases."
He smiled when he was finished, genuinely pleased that he was able to
establish himself as a local.
"All I came to this shitty ass town for was to find a piece of ass.
I've been walking around this damned country for damned near a week
looking for a single piece of ass that I can lay my teeth into." The
man was steaming. His nostrils inflamed, and Eddie noticed the bit of
puss around his nose piercing.
"Well friend, I can tell ya that ho houses aren't the place to go if
you're looking for some free punanny."
"Shit."
Eddie was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable with the man, not so
much because of his comments, but because of his wild appearance. So he
excused himself and went to the bathroom to take a leak. There was no
one in there, and Eddie looked at himself in the mirror, wondering if
he could actually work up the courage to go and talk to that hot
blonde. When he finished urinating, he left the bathroom without
washing his hands. He returned to the bar and ordered another longneck
and drew a long swig from it.
"You wash your hands?" The tattooed stranger asked as though he
possessed some sort of extra sensory perception.
"Sure did," Eddie lied.
"You know that cleanliness is next to godliness."
Eddie remembered hearing that phrase when he was a youngster when his
mother would smack him around for letting his bedroom get messy. He
hadn't heard it since, and he was a little sheepish about the pussy
nosed, tattooed freak next to him repeating it.
"Yeah, don't I know it."
"You think you got a chance with a sweet piece of ass like that if you
ain't washed your hands?" The tattooed man motioned over to the blonde
sitting alone at the table. The man had leaned forward slightly on his
stool. It seemed to Eddie like the man was trying to smell his hands.
Quickly, Eddie moved them from the top of the bar.
"Well, friend, it happens that I've got myself a lady, and I'm not
really looking for any piece of ass." Eddie wasn't precisely sure why
he was lying, but he knew that he didn't want to be shown up by any out
of town, tattooed freak. He looked at the bartender who was pretending
to clean a glass in front of them while listening in on their
conversation. The bartender smiled slyly at Eddie.
There was silence for a moment or two. The band was about to come on.
It was a bluesy rock band that played every Thursday at the bar. They
were Eddie's favorite. He had even bought one of their CDs and listened
to it everyday before he went to work. Eddie swiveled his stool around
as the singer said into the microphone, "hey y'all, we're The Hobos."
It was an eclectic mix of musicians drawn, seemingly from all different
backgrounds. The poor old lead singer with his long white, braided
beard stood at the front of the group precariously holding on to the
microphone with what looked like all of strength. The guitarist, a
preppy young man who wore loafers, khakis and a button down at every
show looked around the stage with a huge smile. The bass player was
either a boy or a girl, Eddie could never tell, who could not have been
more than twelve years old. It wore a grubby white tee-shirt with the
neck stretched out, and a pair of cutoffs with tube sucks that ran up a
pair of spindly legs. The drummer in the back was a young black man who
always seemed to have a look of concern on his face, his lips turned
into an extreme frown as though he had no desire to be playing with
those crackers in that red neck, hillbilly, white trash bar. They went
into a Stevie Ray Vaughn tune that Eddie knew well. His head bobbed
with the groove for a moment or two until the tattooed freak who had
also turned toward the band leaned back and said, "These guys are a
bunch of fucking queers."
Eddie turned in his seat for to take a look at the odd looking man and
said, "Well friend, at least they don't have a fucking tattoo on their
forehead." He smiled widely at the man, a large, sarcastic, irritating
smile, that he hoped would make the man's blood boil. Even though Eddie
wasn't much of a tough guy, he knew that the bartenders wouldn't let
him get his ass kicked.
"What'd you say?" The music was loud and the man hadn't heard a
word.
"Forget it."
"What?"
"Forget it."
About that time another woman entered the bar. She was well into her
fifties, overweight and slightly balding. She was a few teeth short of
a complete set, but was never turned away because of her poor dental
hygiene. Torn jeans and ripped sweatshirt were her nightly garb, and
when she sauntered in, the bartender greeted her with a polite wave.
All too often he had been the victim of her drunken sexual advances,
and one time he had almost had to use physical force to remove her
hefty frame from his. But she was a customer and always tipped
well.
When she sat down next to the tattooed man, Eddie felt his heart leap.
Though he had never paid much attention to the old bat at the bar (she
was too nasty even for him) he never felt any ill will towards her. The
sight of her let him know that the weekend was coming. Eddie became a
bit worried that the man might try to pull some moves on the crazy old
coot.
It was in Eddie's habit to put a sheathed knife in his boot before he
left for work every morning. There was nothing crazy about it, for he
knew that there was always potential, with his line of drinking for
something wild to happen. Eddie had never pulled the knife out, though,
and as he inched up his pantsleg ever so slightly to get a grip on the
polished handle, he wondered whether or not he was making a
mistake.
But as it turned out, there was no need for Eddie to worry. When Cathy
saw the tattoo that said "FUCK" on the man's forehead, she moved her
neat Jack Daniels' down the bar, and slid her fat butt over one
stool.
"Stupid cunt," said the man as he turned toward Eddie and took a swig
off of his beer. "Can't a man just get a little satisfaction every now
and again? Christ, I'm not saying that I should be getting laid every
night. Lord knows I'm not the best looking hombre in the world. But
couldn't just a little slice of pie fall into my lap?"
Eddie looked at the man crook eyed for a moment and let his hand off
of the knife. He pulled his pant leg down so that not even the most
seeing person could catch a glimpse. "Well friend, life ain't always
easy.".

The band continued to play its tunes until about eleven thirty when it
took a break. The band members meandered off stage as though they were
God's gift to music. And certainly they were a pretty decent band,
Eddie thought. He wished that he had learned how to play guitar when he
was a tot. But there had never been much music in his house when he was
young except for a little bit of Conway Twitty and the occasional
Johnny Cash.
Eddie turned to face the expanse of the bar, to take in the full
scene. For it was much better, Eddie had found, to begin talking to a
woman when the music was low. That way they couldn't just pretend to
ignore you. Adjusting himself, Eddie stood up. He took the last swig of
his long neck and set it gently on the bar. The scenery for the evening
was rather bleak. Only eight of the twenty tables were occupied. More
than half of them men. He threw a glance over to the hot blonde who
still sat alone at her table. Eddie could feel his stomach tighten
slightly and he felt the sting of urination come to him. No, no, he was
not prepared for such a challenge. At least not yet. But then Eddie
noticed two young women in the far corner of the joint right near one
of the pinball machines.
The cogs in Eddie's brain began to turn vigorously as he sought to
formulate a plan of attack. And then as his eyes turned to the opposite
wall, it hit him. Go up to the ladies and ask them for change for the
pinball machine. Brilliant, simply brilliant, he smiled to himself. He
sauntered over in his usual way: hands swinging casually, head bouncing
from left to right. He had the look of a dude who had no game. A man of
priceless entertainment who was unfortunately ignored by his
surroundings. When he reached the young ladies table he had to let out
an embellished cough to get their attention.
"Say there ladies. How are you this evening?"
They looked at him with eyes of dismay. This poor guy, they thought to
themselves. But they did not feel sorry enough for him to give him a
response.
"I didn't mean to bother you or nothing, but I was wondering if you
all had change. I haven't played me any pinball all week, and I figured
that this is as good a chance as any, seeing as how the band stopped
playing and all." He smiled at them with the dollar bill held softly
between his index and middle fingers. The bill waved a bit.
"Sure, I think I've got some change," said the lady with the tacky
dyed blonde hair. She had big gums and a big stomach, but her face was
pretty as a peach. That's what Eddie thought anyway as he exchanged the
bill for the coins.
"Say, don't I know you ladies from somewhere?"
"I don't know," said the other wretchedly skinny, washed up looking
lady with the wig on, "you ever go down to that supermarket?"
"Where I do all my shoppin'."
"Well, me and her work down there. We're checkout girls."
"Oh." Then there was silence. Not enough beer. Shit, Eddie thought. I
haven't had a drink in a solid two minutes. He wiped his mouth with his
bare wrist and smiled at the ladies nervously.
"Well, thank you very much, ladies, and I'm sure that I shall see
y'all around." He bowed slightly towards the women. They did not make a
response.
You win some you lose some, he said to himself as he put a quarter
into the pinball machine. It was one of those Arnold Schwarzenegger
movie pinball machines that make lots of noises. Eddie never had been
very good at games, and especially not pinball, so after two minutes,
when his game was done, he decided not to throw anymore money away on
silliness. He walked past the ladies who worked at the supermarket back
to his place at the bar.
"Man, those bitches didn't want none of ya did they?" The tattooed man
just wouldn't leave. It seemed like he would sit there until eternity.
Eddie had begun to pray silently to himself that he would get up and
leave after seeing how lame the whole town was.
"Yeah, they weren't diggin' my style."
"What you think about this piece of ass next to me?" He motioned over
to the fat old broad who sat staring straight ahead. She looked to be
in a daze of the pathetic sort. Her hands twisted a swizzle stick. It
looked as though she was having a conversation with herself. Her lips
moved every so often and her head nodded.
"Well, you're a better man than I if you can put up with that." Eddie
didn't even feel like talking anymore. The night was still young, but
he was beginning to feel tired.
"Hey," the man had turned his attention to the fat lady, tapping her
on the shoulder.
She turned her head slightly, but not enough so that she would have to
look directly at the tattooed man. "Yeah," she spewed.
"This sonuvabitch over here doesn't find you to be a sexy piece of ass
like I do."
She gave a sort of half smile, and both the bartender and Eddie could
tell that even though she was disgusted, she was a little bit flattered
by the come on. But she didn't make any response.
"Well how 'bout I give you a five spot and we go out back and you let
me play with those titties a bit. Then maybe you can let me get my
rocks off somehow. It's been a long time." He laughed after he said it.
It was a deep, demonic laugh, and you could hear the phlegm at the back
of his throat hissing.
"You think that I'd go out back with you for five bucks, mister?" Her
brow began to furrow, and though at one time she may have dabbled in
prostitution, it was no longer an occupation or even a hobby of
hers.
"Well you look like you look pretty damned trashy. I figure I start
out with a low dollar amount and you bargain your way up. I just want
to fuck that fat ass of yours."
The bartender had begun to glare at the tattooed man as he poured a
beer off of the tap. And with that statement that came out of tattoo's
mouth, the bartender intervened.
"Listen champ, I know this ain't a family establishment, but could you
leave the other customers alone. Jesus Christ you know this woman ain't
interested, so leave her the fuck alone. If you start talking that mess
again, I'm gonna kick your ass out. You want me to call the
cops?"
"Damnit, I'm just busting this bitch's chops, man. A guy comes in here
for a drink and he gets harassed for making a few jokes." He laughed
the phlegmy laugh again. All seemed normal for the moment. Eddie had
watched the exchange without too much of a reaction. He knew that he
himself had acted in a similar fashion, although not quite as vulgar,
so he felt a certain amount of sympathy for tattoo.
"Say friend, how 'bout I get your next round."
"That sounds like a helluva plan their partner."
So the two men sat and drank at the bar and actually had a real
conversation. The tattooed man started to tell Eddie about his latest
venture, heroine running. He had just made a shipment from Miami all
the way up to Charlotte and made a cool fifteen hundred. After he had
gotten out of prison for a charge he did not mention, tattoo had
wandered around Florida doing odd jobs, mostly menial, janitorial work.
He'd had the occasional fling with a stripper here and there. Done his
fair share of drinking and smoking, even the occasional snort of coke
when it was around. He asked Eddie if he had any.
"Can't say that I've ever seen the stuff much less had it," Eddie said
as he took another swig. The band had come on again. It was just after
twelve.
"A man hasn't lived until he's snorted that stuff, son. Helps you get
in touch with God." He laughed another phlegmy one. Then he started to
ask Eddie about his lady.
"Well," Eddie was thinking of a woman that could possibly be his. A
face, a pair of tits, a job, a family. He knew these concepts but
couldn't come up with anything concrete. His mind was blank. There was
silence for almost thirty seconds.
"Man, you ain't got a woman, do ya?"
"No."
"Lying ass sonuvabitch. Ya know that'll get you sent straight to hell.
The good lord doesn't like a liar."
Eddie didn't respond. He was embarrassed about being shown up by
tattoo. He hung his head for a moment and then lifted it to look at the
bartender to let him know that he needed another beer. How could I not
have come up with a simple description, he thought to himself. A hair
color, a name.
"Tain't nothing dude. I'm just yankin' yer chain. Shit I haven't had a
real girlfriend since I was down about knee high to a duck."
They drank more in silence. The band had slipped into a Robert Cray
song and a few people had gotten up to dance. Drunkenly they sashayed
from side to side, trying to keep in time to the rhythm. Eddie looked
over at the table where the blonde woman had been sitting and saw her
sipping her chardonnay. She was smiling, tapping the table in time to
the rhythm perfectly. Eddie had almost gotten a full picture of what
that woman would look like naked.

At about one o'clock the band stopped for the night. By that time,
there were close to two dozen folks in the establishment. There were
cheers and claps from the back. A few people got up and left, but most
stayed. Thursday was a big drinking night, and just because it was
Lent, there was no reason for the festivities to be ruined. Eddie was
drunk, as drunk as he had been the week before at that time. He took a
last sip of his beer and set it down.
"Well friend, it sure has been good talking to you. I'm gonna take a
leak and head out. If you're ever in the neighborhood, just stop on in
here. I'm around most nights." He stuck out his hand for tattoo, who
grabbed it and shook it vigorously.
"I've enjoyed it hombre. Don't bet I'll be in here soon, but if I ever
am, I know where to go." He smiled and patted Eddie on the back as he
passed to go to the bathroom.
Eddie imagined that he had downed a good half a case, maybe more
during the night. It was pretty standard for him, and he knew that
there would be no problems driving home. The police were in their
little beds with their little night sticks hanging snugly from their
bedposts.
The bathroom lights shocked his eyes when he opened the door and
stepped inside. Eddie did not hear the voices in the stall as he
unzipped and started to urinate. It was not until he zipped up that he
heard one masculine and one feminine voice. They were loud and maoning,
like something he had heard from those porno movies that he
occasionally watched. Eddie was struck for a moment and realized that
there were two people in the stall having sex. He stood in the middle
of the bathroom to see if he could make out just how they were
positioned. But a silence had crept over the urine infested place.
Eddie felt his heart pounding in his chest with the same sort of
exciteent that he felt when he had picked out a young lady on the dance
floor and addled up to her hoping that he might actually hear something
besides, "Get the fuck out of my face."
"You got a problem out there buddy?" The door to the unhandicapped
accessible stall flew open with those words. From it emerged a tall
Black man with short trimmed hair and a very thin moustache. He wore
rather tight jeans and a tight black shirt through which one could tell
his precise muscular definition. Eddie squinted at the man for a moment
and realized that it was the drummer from the band.
As the man walked closer, Eddie glimpsed over the man's shoulder to see
the beautiful, blonde woman whom he had been admiring all night. Even
with her hair ruffled and her lipstick slightly smeared, her skirt
partially tucked into her panties on the side, and the angry look of
someone who has been disturbed in the middle of sex, she was still
radiant.
Eddie thought about his parents for a moment, their small house on the
outskirts of town with the tiny front porch which held all of the
wonderful memories from his childhood. He expected nothing less than
death.
"No, I ain't got no problem friend, just about to wash my hands is
all." Eddie walked to the sink and started running the water.
The man was directly behind Eddie now. Eddie knew that there was no
way for him to reach his knife quickly enough to defend against the
man.
"Really man," Eddie said in his highest, squeak-filled voice, "I had
no idea that y'all were in here."
Rather quickly, the man grabbed Eddie's head and slammed it forward
into the faucet. His forehead struck a mighty blow that reverberated
inside Eddie's brain. Stunned, Eddie fell to the ground. He reached up
and touched his head and felt the slow drizzle of blood. Eddie looked
up towards the light that hung dismally in the center of the bathroom.
Its rays pierced his iris and sent spots echoing towards his
brain.
The man glowered down at him like a bully on a schoolyard. He did not
say a word only stood for a moment. The blood began to drip on Eddie's
crotch. No, there was no way that he would be able to reach his knife
and stab at the man. It was a situation, and if Eddie made even the
slightest attempt to move, he knew that there would be pummeling. So he
sat for a moment.
Sometimes heroes come in at strange times. The door opened and in
walked tattoo. Eddie turned his head towards his new found friend and
showed a concussive look. Rather dumbfounded, it took tattoo a moment
to register the situation.
"You got a fucking problem, too?" The drummer was incensed, his
sexuality disturbed by a couple of good ol' boys.
Unlike Eddie, the tattooed man never backed down from a fight,
primarily because he didn't need to. He reached down by his ankle and
removed a small, silver plated gun. He pointed it directly at the
perpetrator as he walked towards him.
"The fuck you think you're doing?" Eddie watched tattoo as he spoke.
FUCK became a shining star, a sweaty symbol of heroism at that moment.
The wrinkled forehead heaved up and down as tattoo made efforts to
focus his eyes clearly.
The perpetrator stammered for a moment, not knowing what to say. The
gun was pointed directly at his temple. The blonde woman cowered in the
corner by the urinal, her hands covering her mouth as though she wanted
to scream her beautiful ass off.
"I was just&;#8230;"
"You were just what? You were trying to kick my friend's ass? No, no,
no, no. You know what I do to people like you?" Tattoo waited for a
response, but there was none. "I fucking shoot them in the head, that's
what I do." Eddie was almost wishing that tattoo would just let the
drummer go. After all, it was just a head wound. But the concussion
didn't allow Eddie to speak.
"Honey, come here for a second." Tattoo motioned for the blonde woman
to come over to where they were standing. "Is this your man?"
The woman nodded yes.
"Do you love him?"
Again she nodded yes.
"How much do you love him?"
"With all my heart," said the woman as the tears strewn down her face.
She was sobbing at that moment and Eddie was beginning to lose the
lustful feelings for her. There was something girlish about her that
made her seem too simple for Eddie, not the type of girl that his
dreams were made of.
"Well, that's good, because I'm gonna make a little deal with you
here. It's just 'cause I'm in a good mood. Normally, this guy's brains
would be all over the floor. But I see you, you're a beautiful young
lady, and I think to myself, I can't go and kill this lady's boyfriend.
She's too sweet. She's dating an asshole, but she's sweet."
Tattoo seemed so calm through all of this. The perpetrator began to
shake. He could see the fear in his girlfriend's eyes.
"Well, here it is honey, the chance for you to be the big winner. Save
the day. The superhero. Would you like that? Would you like to save
your precious little boyfriend?"
She nodded.
"Here it is. You blow me right here in this bathroom. Right over there
in that stall. This bitch of a boyfriend of yours stands there and
watches. You, go lock the door," tattoo motioned for Eddie to make such
a movement. Wobbily, Eddie raised himself slowly, making sure his
balance was not too off. He slid his feet over to the door and turned
the deadbolt.
"And don't get any ideas about trying to bite my dick off or anything
like that, because if you bite down, then I shoot this cocksucker right
through the fucking head. You got me?" The blonde woman was blubbering,
sobbing, and she made a motion like she might vomit, but didn't. The
perpetrator glared at the woman and nodded his head. Beads of sweat
began to drip from his forehead, and his eyes bulged with the pressure
of the barrel pressed firmly to his temple.
In the next moment, all three of them were in the stall. Eddie sat down
on the floor again, as his ears began to buzz. But through the white
noise in his ears, he heard the unzipping of a fly, and then the sound
of sucking. Tattoo began to moan. He was loud. Very loud, and it
sounded rather disgusting to Eddie, who always thought of love making
idealistically, even with his sinful ways. Then he heard the billowing
cries of orgasm, and as soon as it had started, it ended.
The door to the stall unlocked and tattoo backed out very carefully.
The blonde woman was in tears, her face crumpled into its most hideous
form. The distinct stain of semen coated her lips. She leaned against
the drummer as though she could not bear to stand anymore, as though
she might fall over at any second. Eddie unlocked the door and the two
men left the couple standing in ruins.
In the bar area, the heavy smell of urine sat. The volume of voices
had increased ten fold over the course of the night as the alcohol ran.
People sat smoking cigarettes and smiling, their worries cast away for
the evening. Eddie the wrangler and the tattooed man looked at each
other, their blood rushing evenly throughout their soaked bodies. The
tattooed man motioned towards the door. There was no reason for him to
stay, and Eddie knew that in a moment, he would be banned for life from
the Belle Dame. Tears came to his eyes as he thought and walked, his
hand on his head trying to cover the aching wound.
When they get out to the street, tattoo pulled out a pack of cigarettes
and lit one. The air was humid and smelled like the sea.
"Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do," said tattoo as he turned from
Eddie the wrangler and walked away into the night.