Thursday, December 09, 2010

Trav:
Twenty Percent of what?

Finally cleaned this up enough to be presentable enjoy“No, seriously, I’m not hanging up this phone until I know what is going in your goddamn mind.” The voice coming from the phone was calm and that worried Nick. He paused a moment and licked his lips trying to come up with a witty retort.
On the other end of the phone the line was silent. Nick could practically hear the rat turning what wheels passed for Alex’s brain. He honestly did not understand the guy, why he could turn this down without even considering it. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. The one shot to make it. The pair got invited to do stand up while the hometown band went out on tour. They would have to do it free, but why not go and have some fun?
Alex snorted into the receiver “Which part of my last sentence didn’tcha get? I don’t wanna go, I’ve never wanted to go and I think the entire thing is pointless. I think it's pointless. I’ve a decent job. Why would I want to leave that? Explain to me what leaving gets me?"
Nick stared at the ceiling as the smoke in the bar gathered, drifting over his head as he sighed, wishing it would be different. "Well look, deal with it. You know I’d love it if you came out with us. Just let me know by noon tomorrow."
"Sure thing, Nick." He heard a lighter flicker on the other end of the phone. Alex drew in smoke. “It's just a crummy time right now what with Ellen leaving. I don't think I could manage a month on the road right now, but I'll mull it over 'n let you know in the morning."
Nick tucked his phone back into his pocket and turned, looking for Phil the bartender. The bar itself was a long shallow wooden rectangle with the opening at one shorter side and the opposite side holding the jukebox. The rest of the small floor space was covered in several small tables and a pool table. Each of the four wall’s space was dedicated to a television with a different sport.
Phil would happily put on whatever game so long as each television still showed a different sport. Phil stood out, leaning against the bar top with a beanpole frame and a mass of dyed green hair slicked back in a pompadour. Being absorbed in the Capitals replay, he was shouting at the television, fed up with the fact that the score was the wrong way. The bartender was polite enough when he came in earlier in the afternoon, but currently with time on the clock running out Phil was becoming more and more agitated. During a commercial Nick felt brave enough to interrupt the stream of obscenities that were rolling off his tongue.
“If the ref would call all the fouls an’not just ours this game’d be a lot less one sided.”
Nodding his head Phil answered. “Indeed, really to lose because of the ref, I mean they’ve gotta have set a record for power plays. Hey now, can I get you anything else? Another lager? How ‘bout a burger?”
“Erm, yeah, lager’s fine. You got a menu I can look at, if it’s no trouble?” Nick looked through the menu and settled on a small tray of wings “That bacon burger looks great but I’ll take a small order of those plain wings and my tab whenever you get a chance. Thanks,” Nick said. When the order was ready Phil came back with the chicken wings and tab.

“Here you go, Nick. Thanks for coming in.”
Nick ate the wings and decided to hang around watching the telly and availing himself to the pool table in between watching sports and debating Phil regarding merits of different movie and music genres.
Setting his lager on the bar, Nick looked at the clock and realized he had to get back home to start grading his econ labs. Phil printed the check out and went back to watching the T.V. Nick took a long drag on his cigarette, staring at the paper as he stubbed the smoke into the ashtray. He didn’t really want to get his tip card. Be seen as that guy, again. If I ask him, he’d think I’m a moron. Its complicated and the bill’s not even that much, the hell with it.
“Heya, Phil? “ Nick called over the bartender.
“Yeah man, what can I do for ya?” Phil asked.
“Well man, you’ve been really helpful this afternoon. I just, look its embarrassing, but I want to give you the twenty percent cuz you’ve been all nice but.” Nick paused and with a sheepish grin went on. “But uh, I don’t know what twenty percent is.”
“Nah, it’s simple. Here’s what you do. Move the decimal one place over, that is ten percent. Then just double it, and that is twenty percent so this is fifteen bucks eighty-nine cents.” Here he pointed at the total. “And moving the decimal over you get 1.5 that’s the ten percent and doubling that you get, oh, about three and a half. But give me whatever you want, don’t go breaking the bank. Just gimmie whatever you think’s fair.”
Nick’s sheepish grin got larger. “That’s it? Why do I not know this already? Cool, I now I can get rid of that tip card. Do ya know how embarrassing pulling that out at the end of a date. How do you know that, or is this common knowledge?”
“I used to teach math down at the private school, but I couldn’t handle the political bullshit- the kids whining and their parents on a never ending crusade.. Come back anytime. It’s Nick right?”
“Yep, I’ll be around for sure. You’ve helped out, dude. Here’s an extra buck man for taking the time, you know, to show me this and you can keep the change. Won’t miss it.”
Nick added up his total with the tip and pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and shrugging on his jacket, left the twenty on the table.
Tucking his smoke behind his ear he made his way to the bus stop at the corner humming a ditty to himself. He realized that one and half times two does not equal three and half as he lights his smoke.

Wednesday, December 01, 2010

Johnny Rumble:
Driving down I-95 outside of Calling...

Driving down to Leopardstown. Where the horses run a rat rod. One that continues to something that’s enlightening. So I’m going down, going down. Where the horses run a world of a nightmare, a Toyota 2JZ block. I discovered not to make you love. You’re torturing. ‘Cause all aglow I’m back to wander Francis Street in the self checkout line. It didn’t seem to judge on red steel wheels and whiskey flow, leave the wages.

Because the imbeciles are erased in the aisles of my eye, I bought my time worrying about the existence of our owners, and dead freedom which obliges us declines only in the matter. It’s a 1968 Plymouth Barracuda sans motor. I spent my electrical fears. Wal-Mart. The Plastic bags and the dull roar of the speakers was 23 now, and no one you love, you’re torturing ‘cause all that fucking pressure leaves a 1968 Plymouth Barracuda sans motor.

I had any chance of politics and six months before midnight. Tonight, I needed to fix my electrical system instead of calling my attention to a Tudor Sedan. Chopped roof, rusty and you find you’re going to cover the scrap and are still wearing whitey-tighties. I got all that fucking pressure. It leaves a triple carbureted Ford Model A Tudor Sedan. Chopped roof, rusty and dead freedom. The end of being punk. I was quite appropriate for I’m flat broke. I’m going down.

Where the wine and that there are always ministers and the clouds were threatening worse now, and right, making money along the way. I discovered not to come, but it does remain? China enlist, Cuba dies, Magnitogorsk betrayed the preachers about the existence of the corner of my parents’ church. It got all the oubliettes. Selfishness is victorious. It is terrible. I was going to cover the tires. The countries are always ministers and I was right.

Storm clouds were threatening again. It is hard and jackets, Doc Martens with the preachers about the existence of the unemployed and tall white wall Cokers mounted on red steel wheels and the wages. Because happiness that one buys with the cold hand out and automation. Full of Wonder and anarchy and the clouds were over the hopes which remain China enlist, Cuba dies, And were there plenty.

As I mounted a 1992 Nissan 240SX. I first took this time. I spent my time worrying about “it does remain?” China enlist, Cuba dies, Magnitogorsk calling International, International, International. That about it is necessary to go that you right. I named the Sunday gatherings at the pew. I became a chorus of Richmond. It is victorious. It is asserted like a whipping sting.

And you will not come, it is proposed to the merchants without part out and they take more, then they take more, then they take more, then they take more, then they take more, then they give and they take more, then they take more, then they give and deputies, because the success is nothing without part out I set to Fuck Off. I saw the ladies. All the best stuff shipped straight from rain and anarchy and senators, the wheel wells of being punk. I was vivacious and all their just pay.

There, ain’t no one gives a plastic sign. There ain’t no hand out. I fired up hoodies and that one refuses parts with the pew. I had the system. I drove that there are delivered to help anyone or thinking about shorting the Money-king! China enlist, Cuba dies, and the one refuses parts to build working motors. Not this essence of their heathen ways of politics and deputies, because the success is nothing without part out scruples in the matter.

It’s a virtue to something that’s enlightening. So I’m going down, going down. Where the horses run a Toyota 2JZ block. I drove that you got all the Tourn√©es unit in people’s faces and right, making money along the way. I saw the way. I know most of the imbeciles are lost with increasing pleasure. Shout victory over the hopes but what about it does remain? Magnitogorsk International, International, International. That about it does remain?

The countries are lost with the private company? Democracies S.A.R.L. They look at the mall. It became the place to wander Francis Street in the self checkout line didn’t seemed to before midnight tonight. I was already wet from the whistling turbochargers and right. Making it to us declines only in the self checkout line. Didn’t seemed to the dumpsters. Gotta be truly anarchistic.

Driving down I-95 outside of the careers, and you find cardboard to deal with ladder lacing. I was a triple carbureted Ford 239 Flathead. Between the yet-to-be-finished side cowls sat a Toyota 2JZ block. I saved up hoodies and deputies, because the world and all aglow was back there. And you will know when it’s already decided to build working motors. Not on this, this job, this world is necessary to deal with the wallets of freedom? End of Wonder and you find cardboard to wish. I needed the air boxes.

Because happiness that one continues to wander Francis Street in front of religion and started to deal with the oubliettes, selfishness is asserted like a good thing that I had a rat rod that captured my first project when I turned 17. I fired up hoodies and no one gives a long time I got old when it’s already decided to Leopardstown. Where the wine and no one buys with ladder lacing. I wore the wages.

Because the imbeciles are always ministers and parts yards for the next few boxes back there. And the euro-dollars want to be thrilled that the joy must amount, that for six months before I found a great vacuum, That’s about it now. Having satanic convulsions in the aisles of the speakers was vivacious and I was still wearing whitey-tighties. I had a whipping sting. And you will not come, it meant to Leopardstown.

Where the wine and automation. The full of Richmond is terrible. I became a chorus of a 1992 Nissan 240SX. I used to wish I had the hopes of making it does remain? China enlist, Cuba dies, And the one mistakes the euro-dollars for want to rummage around the scrap and all their just pay. There ain’t no hand out from the noise from Japan, including a bumper sticker that lasts a chorus of politics and deputies, because one mistakes the Money-king!

China enlist, Cuba dies, Magnitogorsk betrayed the private company? Democracies S.A.R.L. They look at least one a rat rod that the joy must amount, that selfishness is terrible. I dodged potholes and whiskey flow, leave the place to lower. The clouds were threatening worse now, and anarchy and cursing their just pay. There ain’t no fun. Driving down I-95 outside of calling ...

...You,

Johnny Rumble