I sat down at a table at the back of the bar near an emergency exit. I always choose the table a hunted man in an old western movie would choose: a table from where you can clock every fucker that walks in and is close to an exit so you can get the fuck out if you have to get the fuck out. That is Dope City in 2009 - High Motherfucking Noon.
The bar was not my regular bar. It is the bar closest to the garage my car gets fixed up in. It is the bar I ended up in during the aftermath of the successful attack on New York City's twins many black Septembers ago. Visiting the bar is like revisiting the scene of a good old fashioned flaming car crash you just about died in.
I ordered my beer. It came in a pint pot. The beer did not taste quite right but I drank it quick. I ordered food and another pint of the same beer. Beer does not have to be perfect. The waitress smiled as she took my order and listened to my beerside banter. Her smile was fake, just like her tits.
I looked up from my Racing Form around the room as I waited for my food. Everybody looked sick enough to keel over right then and there. The people in my bar are sick looking but these people looked like the living dead. Nobody was looking at me. I thought, "I must fit right in with these dead motherfuckers."
The food came and with it another beer. A song I liked played through the bar's speakers. It was the Strangler's "Always the Sun." I could not place the band or the song right away. The Stranglers are a long fucking time ago to me. I like their first several records. They drip of the best dope money can buy and way too much of it.
After the fourth beer the waitress' fake smile and fake tits were starting to look like maybe they belonged to Pamela Anderson. That was when I thought maybe today four beer would be enough. I settled up and was soon driving my fixed up car towards home, a violent hockey game on tv and the honest smile, real tits and freaky punk rock Hallowe'en sex waiting for me at home.