6/30/20 2:26 P.M.
The Land Lady was pissing me off with her constant whining about being a besieged and hated ape.
I grabbed the pith helmet and Queens Own Pimp Cane and walked up here to the bar past the thugs that I ran into leaving here on Sunday, two days ago.
I am the youngest person at this bar except for Little Ron, who is maybe 50, 5’ 4” inches, a fit 130 pounds and wears a green shirt proclaiming he works for a siding company. He has come home from work with his string bag backpack on the bus. He’s my kind of failed paleface, a feral piece of fate-blown white trash.
He has a nice sized head for a little guy, his hair is only part gray, and he has a punch cut under his left eye. After leaving here yesterday evening after drinking his normal two beers after work, he was waylaid by a Troop of Lesser Mamelukes of the Sultan’s Paleface Eradication Guard.
The cut, still blood fresh, was not from a punch it turns out, but a piece of metal, a pipe he thinks, which also thudded into his head from behind.
He said, “I dropped two of them and they left. They hit me with a pipe or something. But I’m a tough bird—Irish and German…got a hard head,” and he knocks on his skull.
“I’ve got something better for them the next time than these hands…”
…
“No, I wasn’t drunk—only ever drink two beers.”
Little Ron then brushed off his recent trials and inquired as to the health of two of the elder patrons, bought both a drink, a beer and a rum, finished his second beer, tipped the barmaid, shouldered his bag, having spent twice as much on the tip and the drinks for others as his own modest imbibition, and went off into the sun-dreered day to face the enemy.
I wonder which one of us will bite the dust first?
I have 30 days to go and I am out of this shithole for a year or eternity, whichever comes first. My unguilty ghost soul is already bidding bitter ado to this vile corner of existence.
