Post by Deleted on Dec 30, 2011 16:45:50 GMT -5
Filed Under: Leveled... By A War Within, Part One (Or, "A Fine Pick Me Up")
A twangy, mid-paced, alt-country tune plays on the jukebox at Ray's Bar in the rural town of Belfast, North Dakota. Ray's is a favored hang-out of the locals, a place where you'll find a mishmashed cross section of working class Americana. This is where your bikers, truckers, mechanics, day laborers and general hillbilly types congregate to unwind, guzzle a few brewskis and shoot the breeze with their pals after a long day of working for the man. Ray's isn't the most modern kind of bar. You won't find five floors of the type of lewd, crude, ass-slamming, body grinding, vertical body fucking excitement while the latest dubsteppin'-kinda tripe spews from the PA system that you might be accustomed to... you know, if that's your kind of thing.
Frankly, this ain't the type of clientele that you want to be ass-slamming and body grinding with in the first place... you know, unless big burly hairy dudes are your kind of thing. What you will find at Ray's is cold beer, sports on the TV and a general air of Caucasian plight. Sometimes it's tragic, sometimes it's comedic, sometimes it's even heart-warming. Invariably it's the camaraderie that keeps this group coming back to Ray's, day after day, week after week, spending paycheck after paycheck here while regaling one another with their latest tales of triumph, near-triumph and mind-numbing depression.
As we turn our attention to the gentlemen seated at the counter of this old, quaint, privately-owned American beer-slingin' establishment, we find the reason for why thine eyes have taken us to Ray's. Jam Willy Jesus is seated upon a wooden stool at the counter, slugging back a frosty tall glass of lager. Jam Willy's long black hair and beard appear unkempt, matted with filth and more than likely rife with lice. Willy's attire consists of a faded blue denim jacket, his trademark beaded necklace, a Ramones T-shirt, tattered blue jeans and black Dickies boots, none of which appear to have been washed or changed recently. The expression on Jam Willy's face tells the story of a man who is hopelessly fatigued and more than a little bitter about the direction that his life has taken. Willy looks like he's been drinking for a week straight, without interruption for food or sleep.
We pull our eyes away from this sad sight and pan to the stool next to Willy's. Here we find a familiar face in Grampops, the elderly, gray-haired gent with the Yosemite Sam complex who was last seen consoling Jam Willy over the death of his beloved pick-up truck Henrietta a couple weeks back. Henrietta had been brutally murdered by Switches the Clown. The same Switches the Clown who attacked Jam Willy with a lead pipe, Tonya Harding-style on Slam last week. Yeah, fuck that clown. He's bad news. I hear he listens to Journey too. Eww. I mean fuck that shit, right? Get some alt-country twang up in ya ears, crackah!
Anyway, Grampops whets his whistle with a drink of amber-colored American brew before waxing poetic to his troubled friend.
Grampops: "It was sick shit, I tells ya. I ain't seen a clown go that kinda crazy since John Wayne Gacy butchered them little, queer boys. I think that was... back in '73? Shit is that when I was rollin' with Gacy... '73?"
Jam Willy sighs as he slogs back another drink of stupid sauce.
Jam Willy Jesus: "It shocked the shit outta me, that's for goddamn fuckin' sure. Fuckin' clown... where did he even get that pipe? What is he some kinda half-clown, half-plumber? Is he union? If he's union I want to file a complaint with his rep. Can I do that? Can I file a complaint with his rep if I'm not payin' union dues?"
Grampops: "Damned if I know, Willy. Them fuckin' union pusses tried to put my daddy's lumber mill out of business. Said he was exploitin' his laborers. Underpayin' 'em and shit. He paid market value, damn it. Market value! Do you know what that is?"
Jam Willy: "It's market value."
Jam Willy drinks to that.
Grampops: "Damn straight. Oh well... fuckin' Japs finished what them union pusses started."
Grampops sighs exponentially before drowning his sorrows with all-enchanting, hop-filled delight.
Grampops: "I always hated them slanty-eyed bastards."
Jam Willy: "I like the Jap wumunz."
Grampops: "Yeah, the wumunz is a'ight, so long as they don't talk too much. They give damn good head."
Jam Willy: "Mmm... head."
Grampops: "Yeah, brotha... head. Need tuh gets me summa that head."
Grampops and Jam Willy cock their heads toward each other, locking eyes and grinning like a couple of dopes. Suddenly their eyes grow wide with horror as they realize that, well, they're staring at each other like that and just as quickly they turn away.
Grampops: "I, uh..."
Jam Willy: "Yeah, yeah, that wasn't..."
Grampops: "We wasn't talkin' 'bout givin' head to each other."
Jam Willy: "No, no. Japanese wumunz."
Grampops: "Yeah, yeah. Japanese wumunz."
Having done their best to convince themselves that their heterosexuality is firmly intact, they search for an avenue toward less-awkward conversation.
Grampops: "So, uh, you was tellin' me about your knee earlier?"
Jam Willy: "Yeah, I seen Doc Brown and I done told him what happened. Told him my knee was killin' me after that sonnuva bitch Switches attacked me with that pipe. Doc did the whole, full range of motion tests on my knee. He X-rayed it and shit. He told me that I done suffered a contusion."
Jam Willy looks matter of factly at Grampops. Grampops appears mighty confused.
Grampops: "You suffered a confusion?"
Jam Willy squints his eyes at Grampops before it clicks in his head that the old man is a bit hard of hearing... and he ain't too bright in the first place.
Jam Willy: "Nah, a con-tu-sion, main. It's just a fancy way of sayin' that my knee is bruised. It hurts like hell, but it won't stop me from competin' at One and whoopin' that damn clown from the openin' bell to Bellevue, where he belongs."
Grampops: "That's the spirit, Willy."
Grampops raises what's left in his glass in a salute to his friend before chugging it down and signalling the barkeep for another. Ray, the dark-haired, blue-eyed, clean-cut, fifty-something looking fella who owns the place promptly serves up another beer for Grampops and then turns to Jam Willy.
Ray: "Shit, that ain't nothin' that a lil Jack can't fix, Willy. In fact..."
Ray picks out six bottles from his vast assortment of alcohols behind the counter and sets them down, one-by-one, on the counter top in front of Jam Willy. The labels read, in order from left to right: Jack Daniels, Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, José Cuervo, Jägermeister and Jameson.
Ray: "The best doctors that I know are the six J's."
Ray winks at cha. Grampops cackles gleefully and claps his hands like an excitable boy.
Grampops: "Now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout! Only Doctah J we missin' up in this motha is Julius Ervin'!"
Ray: "Ya just missed him, Grampops. He stopped by here last Thursday."
Ray winks at cha again. He has a habit of doing that. Ray's a smooth motherfucker. That's why the chicks dig Ray. The prominent patch of chest hair that puffs out of those top few inches of his unbuttoned dress shirt and the gold chain that he perpetually wears don't hurt either. At least not with the ladies around these parts.
Jam Willy: "Well, damn, that's a fine spread, Ray."
Ray: "Thank ya kindly, Willy. What would ya like to start with?"
Jam Willy: "Bein' honest wit cha, I don't have a whole helluva lotta money right now. I can't really afford none o' this high-end shit. I work for Seth Lerch, ya know. That motha fucka's so cheap he charges ya to use the toilets at the Dub-See-Eff Arena."
Grampops: "No shit? Motha fucka installed pay toilets?"
Jam Willy: "Yeah. I had to take a shit like a mufucka after one of them shows a few weeks back, right? I'm tryin' to open the door to the stall and this fuckin' thing would not open, for the life o' Baby Jesus. Then I seen this little silver slot on the stall door, where yer s'posed ta insert cha coin, right? I'm like 'Fuck this shit. I gotta shit, main!' I kick that fuckin' door in, pull the motha fucka who was on the toilet off-a it and kicked his ass the fuck outta there. I took my shit right then and there!"
Grampops: "Damn... that's some serious drama for a number-two."
Grampops suckles on his glass like it's a woman's teat as he drinks that cold, refreshing brew.
Jam Willy: "Ain't it though?"
Ray: "Uh, Willy?"
Jam Willy: "Yessir?"
Ray: "That wasn't a pay toilet. That silver slot that you saw on the outside of the door was the lock. Someone was usin' the toilet and they had the door locked. That's why you couldn't open the door."
Suddenly, it dawns on Willy's inebriated brain.
Jam Willy: "Awwwwww shit! Main, they took that door outta my paycheck. That shit cost three-hundred dollas to replace, and I'm already makin' peanuts."
As Jam Willy reminds us of the travails of being a drunk and stupid working class schmuck, Ray takes pity on the young, grappling-type dude.
Ray: "Don't worry about none of that, Willy. You're one of my best customers. I'll just put these shots on your tab. When you whoop that damn clown and move up the card, I'm sure you'll be rollin' in dough. You can pay me back then."
Jam Willy raises his eyes up from their squalor and depression and looks at Ray.
Jam Willy: "You, sir, are a saint. A saint with the chest hair of a Greek god. Let us drink! Drink and be merry!"
Ray sets up five shot glasses on the counter and pours five shots of Jäger, which he knows to be Jam Willy's favorite drink. One by one Willy sucks them down. In a matter of seconds they are entirely evaporated. Willy hops out of his stool and he's feelin' so good that he does a Booker T-style Spin-a-roonie right there on the floor. Then, Willy bounces to his feet and lets out a Ric Flair style--
Jam Willy: "Wooo!"
Ray: "That's my Jam Willy!"
Grampops: "Fuck that knee pain bullshit! Look at him go! Look at Willy cuttin' a rug! What is that, an Irish jig?"
Ray: "Sure is, and hell, this is Belfast!"
Ray and Grampops clink their glasses together before each downing a shot of Jameson. Grampops slaps his glass down onto the counter top.
Grampops: "Ha-cha-cha-cha! That's the good Irish shit! Now all I need's a good Irish wumun."
Grampops gazes hopefully around the bar, finding nothing but burly, bearded studs. That ain't his bag.
Grampops: "Oh well... fuck that. It looks like it's just me and Jameson tonight."
Grampops downs another shot of the flavorful whiskey and nods his head, taking in two eyefuls of Jam Willy's lively dance routine. This continues for another two hours, with Willy pausing only to down additional shots of Jäger, Jack, Jim, Johnnie, José and yes... Jameson. That mixture probably ain't too good for a young man's stomach, not to mention his liver or brain, but Willy's in a groove now and he don't wanna stop for nothin'.
Jam Willy: "Wooo!"
The rest of the patrons "Wooo!" right along with Jam Willy and chuckle and guffaw as he pulls off moves straight out of Flashdance. As much as some of these dudes have been drinkin' tonight, Jam Willy might be lookin' like Jennifer Beals to them right about now. Good thing for Jam Willy that he knows how to take care of himself.
After another hour-and-a-half to two hours of shenanigans (it's impossible to nail down an exact time, what with all the drinkin' and hootin' and hollerin' goin' on), Jam Willy finally sits back down on his stool at the counter.
Jam Willy: "Goddamn that was fun."
Grampops: "Night ain't over yet, Jam Willy. There's still hope of gettin' laid!"
Jam Willy: "Damn it, Grampops, I thought we went over this before. I don't think of you that way!"
Grampops: "I'm not talkin' 'bout with me, ya idiot! I'm talkin' 'bout with a broad."
Jam Willy looks around the bar and finds nothing that, even in his highly intoxicated state, remotely resembles something that could have a vagina. Although, that jukebox ain't too shabby... and she has a lovely voice.
Jam Willy: "Fuck, main... I'm straight."
Grampops: "You mean you're good for now?"
Jam Willy: "Nah, I mean I'm not a homo, but yeah I'm good for now too."
That Neko Case song on the jukebox really kicks into gear now as Jam Willy leans forward in his chair, and slumps face-first onto the counter. Before long he has passed out. After an undefined period of time has elapsed, Jam Willy is awakened from his slumber by a tap on the shoulder. It's Ray.
Ray: "Hey, Willy. That lady bought you a drink."
Ray places the drink onto the counter in front of Willy and points across the bar. Willy pivots his head and catches himself a glance of the lady.
Grampops: "Daaaamn, Willy. I told ya the night wudn't over."
Willy can only see the woman from behind, though he's not complaining about that. The woman has long hair with an orange-reddish hue and she's wearing a form-fitting, violet colored dress that complements her hourglass figure. The woman rises from her seat and walks toward a door in the back of the bar. She's wearing red heels that make her ass wiggle with each step that she takes, and what a fine ass it is, shaped like a candy apple mating with a silver dollar, and twice as firm by the looks of it.
The woman disappears behind the door. Jam Willy quickly downs his drink and follows the woman. He walks through the same doorway that she did, which takes him into a hallway. Once there he sees the woman turning a corner into another hall. Jam Willy half-runs, trying to catch up with her. He doesn't want to seem desperate, that's why it's only a half-run. Eventually he does catch up to the woman and follows her into a room. This room would be considered a sort of... gentlemen's lounge. It has velvety smooth provisions for those who wish to discretely engage in adult-oriented activities.
Ray doesn't mind. Hell, that's what he set it up for. Better that people get it on in here, where it's private, than out there in the main bar room. Just leave a tip in the jar on your way out the door. It's the courteous thing to do. Anywho, Jam Willy still hasn't gotten a glimpse of his female admirer's front side, but if it matches her backside then he's hit the jackpot. Willy takes a seat on the lounger. He gets comfortable, kicks off his boots, takes off his jacket and shirt, and unzips his jeans, all in a matter of ten seconds. Willy gets to his feet and keeps his eyes locked on the red-haired temptress as he begins to pull down his jeans. She still has her back turned to Willy, but he's watching her every move as she kicks off those ruby red heels of hers.
What Jam Willy sees... well, it makes him freeze. This lady doesn't have feet as you and I know them, feet with pretty painted toes that can be used for sucking. No, sir. This lady has hooves. Cloven, black hooves. Before he has time to react to this unsavory revelation, Willy is hit by a bout of extreme dizziness. He releases his jeans and they fall around his ankles. Then Willy falls altogether, dropping face-first to the floor. Willy blinks a few times, finding those hooves inches from his face. Willy closes his eyes and passes out. Darkness pervades.
A twangy, mid-paced, alt-country tune plays on the jukebox at Ray's Bar in the rural town of Belfast, North Dakota. Ray's is a favored hang-out of the locals, a place where you'll find a mishmashed cross section of working class Americana. This is where your bikers, truckers, mechanics, day laborers and general hillbilly types congregate to unwind, guzzle a few brewskis and shoot the breeze with their pals after a long day of working for the man. Ray's isn't the most modern kind of bar. You won't find five floors of the type of lewd, crude, ass-slamming, body grinding, vertical body fucking excitement while the latest dubsteppin'-kinda tripe spews from the PA system that you might be accustomed to... you know, if that's your kind of thing.
Frankly, this ain't the type of clientele that you want to be ass-slamming and body grinding with in the first place... you know, unless big burly hairy dudes are your kind of thing. What you will find at Ray's is cold beer, sports on the TV and a general air of Caucasian plight. Sometimes it's tragic, sometimes it's comedic, sometimes it's even heart-warming. Invariably it's the camaraderie that keeps this group coming back to Ray's, day after day, week after week, spending paycheck after paycheck here while regaling one another with their latest tales of triumph, near-triumph and mind-numbing depression.
As we turn our attention to the gentlemen seated at the counter of this old, quaint, privately-owned American beer-slingin' establishment, we find the reason for why thine eyes have taken us to Ray's. Jam Willy Jesus is seated upon a wooden stool at the counter, slugging back a frosty tall glass of lager. Jam Willy's long black hair and beard appear unkempt, matted with filth and more than likely rife with lice. Willy's attire consists of a faded blue denim jacket, his trademark beaded necklace, a Ramones T-shirt, tattered blue jeans and black Dickies boots, none of which appear to have been washed or changed recently. The expression on Jam Willy's face tells the story of a man who is hopelessly fatigued and more than a little bitter about the direction that his life has taken. Willy looks like he's been drinking for a week straight, without interruption for food or sleep.
We pull our eyes away from this sad sight and pan to the stool next to Willy's. Here we find a familiar face in Grampops, the elderly, gray-haired gent with the Yosemite Sam complex who was last seen consoling Jam Willy over the death of his beloved pick-up truck Henrietta a couple weeks back. Henrietta had been brutally murdered by Switches the Clown. The same Switches the Clown who attacked Jam Willy with a lead pipe, Tonya Harding-style on Slam last week. Yeah, fuck that clown. He's bad news. I hear he listens to Journey too. Eww. I mean fuck that shit, right? Get some alt-country twang up in ya ears, crackah!
Anyway, Grampops whets his whistle with a drink of amber-colored American brew before waxing poetic to his troubled friend.
Grampops: "It was sick shit, I tells ya. I ain't seen a clown go that kinda crazy since John Wayne Gacy butchered them little, queer boys. I think that was... back in '73? Shit is that when I was rollin' with Gacy... '73?"
Jam Willy sighs as he slogs back another drink of stupid sauce.
Jam Willy Jesus: "It shocked the shit outta me, that's for goddamn fuckin' sure. Fuckin' clown... where did he even get that pipe? What is he some kinda half-clown, half-plumber? Is he union? If he's union I want to file a complaint with his rep. Can I do that? Can I file a complaint with his rep if I'm not payin' union dues?"
Grampops: "Damned if I know, Willy. Them fuckin' union pusses tried to put my daddy's lumber mill out of business. Said he was exploitin' his laborers. Underpayin' 'em and shit. He paid market value, damn it. Market value! Do you know what that is?"
Jam Willy: "It's market value."
Jam Willy drinks to that.
Grampops: "Damn straight. Oh well... fuckin' Japs finished what them union pusses started."
Grampops sighs exponentially before drowning his sorrows with all-enchanting, hop-filled delight.
Grampops: "I always hated them slanty-eyed bastards."
Jam Willy: "I like the Jap wumunz."
Grampops: "Yeah, the wumunz is a'ight, so long as they don't talk too much. They give damn good head."
Jam Willy: "Mmm... head."
Grampops: "Yeah, brotha... head. Need tuh gets me summa that head."
Grampops and Jam Willy cock their heads toward each other, locking eyes and grinning like a couple of dopes. Suddenly their eyes grow wide with horror as they realize that, well, they're staring at each other like that and just as quickly they turn away.
Grampops: "I, uh..."
Jam Willy: "Yeah, yeah, that wasn't..."
Grampops: "We wasn't talkin' 'bout givin' head to each other."
Jam Willy: "No, no. Japanese wumunz."
Grampops: "Yeah, yeah. Japanese wumunz."
Having done their best to convince themselves that their heterosexuality is firmly intact, they search for an avenue toward less-awkward conversation.
Grampops: "So, uh, you was tellin' me about your knee earlier?"
Jam Willy: "Yeah, I seen Doc Brown and I done told him what happened. Told him my knee was killin' me after that sonnuva bitch Switches attacked me with that pipe. Doc did the whole, full range of motion tests on my knee. He X-rayed it and shit. He told me that I done suffered a contusion."
Jam Willy looks matter of factly at Grampops. Grampops appears mighty confused.
Grampops: "You suffered a confusion?"
Jam Willy squints his eyes at Grampops before it clicks in his head that the old man is a bit hard of hearing... and he ain't too bright in the first place.
Jam Willy: "Nah, a con-tu-sion, main. It's just a fancy way of sayin' that my knee is bruised. It hurts like hell, but it won't stop me from competin' at One and whoopin' that damn clown from the openin' bell to Bellevue, where he belongs."
Grampops: "That's the spirit, Willy."
Grampops raises what's left in his glass in a salute to his friend before chugging it down and signalling the barkeep for another. Ray, the dark-haired, blue-eyed, clean-cut, fifty-something looking fella who owns the place promptly serves up another beer for Grampops and then turns to Jam Willy.
Ray: "Shit, that ain't nothin' that a lil Jack can't fix, Willy. In fact..."
Ray picks out six bottles from his vast assortment of alcohols behind the counter and sets them down, one-by-one, on the counter top in front of Jam Willy. The labels read, in order from left to right: Jack Daniels, Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, José Cuervo, Jägermeister and Jameson.
Ray: "The best doctors that I know are the six J's."
Ray winks at cha. Grampops cackles gleefully and claps his hands like an excitable boy.
Grampops: "Now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout! Only Doctah J we missin' up in this motha is Julius Ervin'!"
Ray: "Ya just missed him, Grampops. He stopped by here last Thursday."
Ray winks at cha again. He has a habit of doing that. Ray's a smooth motherfucker. That's why the chicks dig Ray. The prominent patch of chest hair that puffs out of those top few inches of his unbuttoned dress shirt and the gold chain that he perpetually wears don't hurt either. At least not with the ladies around these parts.
Jam Willy: "Well, damn, that's a fine spread, Ray."
Ray: "Thank ya kindly, Willy. What would ya like to start with?"
Jam Willy: "Bein' honest wit cha, I don't have a whole helluva lotta money right now. I can't really afford none o' this high-end shit. I work for Seth Lerch, ya know. That motha fucka's so cheap he charges ya to use the toilets at the Dub-See-Eff Arena."
Grampops: "No shit? Motha fucka installed pay toilets?"
Jam Willy: "Yeah. I had to take a shit like a mufucka after one of them shows a few weeks back, right? I'm tryin' to open the door to the stall and this fuckin' thing would not open, for the life o' Baby Jesus. Then I seen this little silver slot on the stall door, where yer s'posed ta insert cha coin, right? I'm like 'Fuck this shit. I gotta shit, main!' I kick that fuckin' door in, pull the motha fucka who was on the toilet off-a it and kicked his ass the fuck outta there. I took my shit right then and there!"
Grampops: "Damn... that's some serious drama for a number-two."
Grampops suckles on his glass like it's a woman's teat as he drinks that cold, refreshing brew.
Jam Willy: "Ain't it though?"
Ray: "Uh, Willy?"
Jam Willy: "Yessir?"
Ray: "That wasn't a pay toilet. That silver slot that you saw on the outside of the door was the lock. Someone was usin' the toilet and they had the door locked. That's why you couldn't open the door."
Suddenly, it dawns on Willy's inebriated brain.
Jam Willy: "Awwwwww shit! Main, they took that door outta my paycheck. That shit cost three-hundred dollas to replace, and I'm already makin' peanuts."
As Jam Willy reminds us of the travails of being a drunk and stupid working class schmuck, Ray takes pity on the young, grappling-type dude.
Ray: "Don't worry about none of that, Willy. You're one of my best customers. I'll just put these shots on your tab. When you whoop that damn clown and move up the card, I'm sure you'll be rollin' in dough. You can pay me back then."
Jam Willy raises his eyes up from their squalor and depression and looks at Ray.
Jam Willy: "You, sir, are a saint. A saint with the chest hair of a Greek god. Let us drink! Drink and be merry!"
Ray sets up five shot glasses on the counter and pours five shots of Jäger, which he knows to be Jam Willy's favorite drink. One by one Willy sucks them down. In a matter of seconds they are entirely evaporated. Willy hops out of his stool and he's feelin' so good that he does a Booker T-style Spin-a-roonie right there on the floor. Then, Willy bounces to his feet and lets out a Ric Flair style--
Jam Willy: "Wooo!"
Ray: "That's my Jam Willy!"
Grampops: "Fuck that knee pain bullshit! Look at him go! Look at Willy cuttin' a rug! What is that, an Irish jig?"
Ray: "Sure is, and hell, this is Belfast!"
Ray and Grampops clink their glasses together before each downing a shot of Jameson. Grampops slaps his glass down onto the counter top.
Grampops: "Ha-cha-cha-cha! That's the good Irish shit! Now all I need's a good Irish wumun."
Grampops gazes hopefully around the bar, finding nothing but burly, bearded studs. That ain't his bag.
Grampops: "Oh well... fuck that. It looks like it's just me and Jameson tonight."
Grampops downs another shot of the flavorful whiskey and nods his head, taking in two eyefuls of Jam Willy's lively dance routine. This continues for another two hours, with Willy pausing only to down additional shots of Jäger, Jack, Jim, Johnnie, José and yes... Jameson. That mixture probably ain't too good for a young man's stomach, not to mention his liver or brain, but Willy's in a groove now and he don't wanna stop for nothin'.
Jam Willy: "Wooo!"
The rest of the patrons "Wooo!" right along with Jam Willy and chuckle and guffaw as he pulls off moves straight out of Flashdance. As much as some of these dudes have been drinkin' tonight, Jam Willy might be lookin' like Jennifer Beals to them right about now. Good thing for Jam Willy that he knows how to take care of himself.
After another hour-and-a-half to two hours of shenanigans (it's impossible to nail down an exact time, what with all the drinkin' and hootin' and hollerin' goin' on), Jam Willy finally sits back down on his stool at the counter.
Jam Willy: "Goddamn that was fun."
Grampops: "Night ain't over yet, Jam Willy. There's still hope of gettin' laid!"
Jam Willy: "Damn it, Grampops, I thought we went over this before. I don't think of you that way!"
Grampops: "I'm not talkin' 'bout with me, ya idiot! I'm talkin' 'bout with a broad."
Jam Willy looks around the bar and finds nothing that, even in his highly intoxicated state, remotely resembles something that could have a vagina. Although, that jukebox ain't too shabby... and she has a lovely voice.
Jam Willy: "Fuck, main... I'm straight."
Grampops: "You mean you're good for now?"
Jam Willy: "Nah, I mean I'm not a homo, but yeah I'm good for now too."
That Neko Case song on the jukebox really kicks into gear now as Jam Willy leans forward in his chair, and slumps face-first onto the counter. Before long he has passed out. After an undefined period of time has elapsed, Jam Willy is awakened from his slumber by a tap on the shoulder. It's Ray.
Ray: "Hey, Willy. That lady bought you a drink."
Ray places the drink onto the counter in front of Willy and points across the bar. Willy pivots his head and catches himself a glance of the lady.
Grampops: "Daaaamn, Willy. I told ya the night wudn't over."
Willy can only see the woman from behind, though he's not complaining about that. The woman has long hair with an orange-reddish hue and she's wearing a form-fitting, violet colored dress that complements her hourglass figure. The woman rises from her seat and walks toward a door in the back of the bar. She's wearing red heels that make her ass wiggle with each step that she takes, and what a fine ass it is, shaped like a candy apple mating with a silver dollar, and twice as firm by the looks of it.
The woman disappears behind the door. Jam Willy quickly downs his drink and follows the woman. He walks through the same doorway that she did, which takes him into a hallway. Once there he sees the woman turning a corner into another hall. Jam Willy half-runs, trying to catch up with her. He doesn't want to seem desperate, that's why it's only a half-run. Eventually he does catch up to the woman and follows her into a room. This room would be considered a sort of... gentlemen's lounge. It has velvety smooth provisions for those who wish to discretely engage in adult-oriented activities.
Ray doesn't mind. Hell, that's what he set it up for. Better that people get it on in here, where it's private, than out there in the main bar room. Just leave a tip in the jar on your way out the door. It's the courteous thing to do. Anywho, Jam Willy still hasn't gotten a glimpse of his female admirer's front side, but if it matches her backside then he's hit the jackpot. Willy takes a seat on the lounger. He gets comfortable, kicks off his boots, takes off his jacket and shirt, and unzips his jeans, all in a matter of ten seconds. Willy gets to his feet and keeps his eyes locked on the red-haired temptress as he begins to pull down his jeans. She still has her back turned to Willy, but he's watching her every move as she kicks off those ruby red heels of hers.
What Jam Willy sees... well, it makes him freeze. This lady doesn't have feet as you and I know them, feet with pretty painted toes that can be used for sucking. No, sir. This lady has hooves. Cloven, black hooves. Before he has time to react to this unsavory revelation, Willy is hit by a bout of extreme dizziness. He releases his jeans and they fall around his ankles. Then Willy falls altogether, dropping face-first to the floor. Willy blinks a few times, finding those hooves inches from his face. Willy closes his eyes and passes out. Darkness pervades.
