Bitch

Back and forth, back and forth the words fly, like vinyl being
sodomized by Mix Master Mike. Here, there, anywhere. Anywhere but here,
the place looks like a breeding ground for the skankier classes. The
pub don't matter Russ says, long as it serves some brew. Not
surprisingly, they all do. I've always agreed with him on this point.
No use bantering outside in the blinding sunlight when we could be
inside doing the same with amber in our paws, democracy prevails, I'm
the only one that gives a shit. Several sated throats and we've have
left. Halfway down the road I realise I left her behind. Fuck. Pace it
back, explicit images spurring me on.

Inside again. Swift look. Might as well have been Stevie Wonder. Deeper
look. She ain't there. Stop. Change focus to...

In I walked. Feelin' good, she's caressing my head. Saunter over to
bar. Serving wench doesn't look me in the eye. Lesbian man hater.
Hoegaarden down in front of me. Shuffle, don't want to lose the cloudy
white. Sit down, others around. Hoegaarden down in front of me.
Marlboro in mouth. Light with clich?d flair. She could have stopped
touching my head anytime gone; I am too involved with the beer to
notice. Besides, everyone is spinning shit. I can't be aware of
everything at once. Russ by my side, extolling the virtues of Fosters
over Stella. Cheaper. That's all I get into my ears. Cheaper. Stella
makes for an evil state, now and tomorrow I suggest. Heads nod in
agreement. Conversation meanders to testosterone bravado stories. Andy
downed X pints of Stella. Got fucked, got abusive with his bitch, turns
out she liked it. She starts up on him, for telling everyone. You can
see the subtext though, she's really telling him to get some Stella
down his gullet. She wants a red dragon. It's fucking obvious. Dirty
whore. Michelle downed X pints of Stella, plus Z pints of Fosters once,
least that's what Russ is saying. She can't remember her cranial fluid
is mostly ethanol. I call that pickled. I don't inject my own semen
into the banter, I'm a glass and half and they all know it anyway, no
point in putting your five-inch cock on display and saying it's twelve.
The group is humming, ready for more. Time to move on, the sun has set.
Outside. Walk in direction of Sumo, it's Saturday night and funky house
is being dropped. I'll show up John Travolta. Halfway down the road I
realise I left her behind. Fuck. Pace it back, explicit images spurring
me on.

Inside again. Swift look. Might as well have been Stevie Wonder. Deeper
look. She ain't there. May as well ask the lemon, see if she noticed
anything. I ask her, she's assumed a friendly fa?ade. No, she ain't
seen anything. Sickly sweet. I want to pick up a glass and crush her
adams apple with it, if she can't talk. She can't lie. Bitch. Turn
around. World goes silent, she's left and I know it. Quads are burning
as they propel my leaden feet to the door. Carpet eater laughs at me
behind my back, I can feel it.

Outside. Clarity bends me over the nearby bin, rides me and whispers
sour nothings in my ear. Jilted. Taken. Stolen. Fucking dyke bartending
bitch has stolen her from me.

Stop. Change focus to...

In I walked. Feelin' good, she's caressing my head. Saunter over to
bar, serving wench checks her out. I'm certain of it. Sunshine is
outside, take her off. Hoegaarden down in front of me. Turn away, turn
back, she's gone.

Fucking bitch stole my glasses.

The pub don't matter Russ says, long as it serves some brew. Not
surprisingly, they all do. I've always agreed with him on this point.
Not anymore. Fucking bitch.