Before Entering
Remove:
Hat
Cap
Hood
Sun glasses
Two vigilant Liberians, polite and hard, cagey as leopards, regard me as I step inside and remove only my sunglasses, leaving my bush hat on.
I buy a Coke Slurpee to mix with my home-spiced rum for the weekly publication party, paying #2, the lead cashier behind the counter paying the odd penny in tax, and headed out the door as they Said, "Good day, Sir," to the only human being other then them, in sight.
I love foot ball. It keeps the thugs, pigs, sissies, hipsters, yuppies, rednecks, city hicks, dindus and hoodrats inside, for four hours making a tolerable asphalt wilderness of this pit of vileness and corruption.
"Sweet Meteor of Doom," I barked into the sky and walked off, cackling with glee.
Despite doing less than $10 per hour in business while the game is on, the owner has to pay two $10 an hour clerks to man the store, which is a franchise rule, to keep it open despite danger [necessitating the extra hand] and low traffic, which will eventually drive him out of business.
Three other signs, denying entry to youths and other such defensive, retail siege wordage clutters the glass behind me as I glide off on devil's hooves down into my feeding ground, to squat here in my dread lair, menacing my psychological prey.
The Great Train Wreck of the West
link › jameslafond.blogspot.com
