Tag: dive bar

A Drunken Case Of Mistaken Identity

For those of Us that Drink Alcoholic Beverages like Myself We all have had Drunken Mishaps Along the Way. Everything from Drunken Phone Calls professing Undying Love to an Irritated Ex to Vomiting to a Full Blown Bar Room Brawl We’ve all been there at Least Once when Alcohol is Involved. This is one of those Not so Proud Moments during a Night Out Drinking like there was No Tomorrow a Few Years Back.

It all Started with a New Job, New Office, and of course New Co-Workers. I’m not what one would call a Social Butterfly by Any Means, but over the First Few Weeks I slowly became Friends with a Coworker Named Zander. Zander and I worked in the Same Small Department which made it Easier for ME to Socialize Comfortably. So as Time Rolled On I reached that Pivotal Point in a Work Friendship where You ask said Friend if They in fact would like to Hangout Outside of Work. Now I new Zander had Three Young Kids all Under the Age of Ten so Free Time was Something He had in Extremely Short Supply. Thats One Life Lesson We all Eventually Learn, and that is When Your Friends have Kids They Disappear. It’s like They go into some Parenting Witness Protection Program.

                   

What even First Time Parents Don’t Fully fucking Realize is that When You have a Kid Your Entire Life becomes dedicated to one Sole Purpose and that’s Raising the Child/Children. Also it’s Not its Not just in the Physical World that Their Absence is Notable either. They Stop returning Texts, Answering Emails, Taking Phone Calls, and They Abandon Their Social Media Accounts. If By Chance Do Keep a Social Media Account Active it turns into the “HEY LOOK AT MY KID EVERYBODY” as if the Entire Rest of the World has a fucking Vested Interest in the Daily Life of Your Child. Anyway back to the Story.

One Day I finally asked Zander if He wanted to go get a Beer or Something After Work since it was Friday, and the beginning of the Weekend Plus it was Pay Day. Zander thought about it the Way Parents Do by Pausing, Getting Quit, and Starring off like They’re going into a Trance. I mean its Not like You asked Them an Advanced Calculous Question, but again a Child is a Dominating Force to be Reckoned with. I waited patiently watching the Gears in Danders Head start Spinning as He did a Mental Checklist of Kid Shit He may or may Not have to Do (as Well as Responsibilities like Feeding the Kids and all that Maintenance Shit). At Last Zander returned to the Adult World Outside of His Head, and Said He was pretty sure He could come Out, BUT He had to Run Home Directly afterwork to Clear it with His Wife. It made sense to Me since No One like getting Shafted with having to Handle the Kids/Kid Shit by One’s Self as Raising a Child is a Tag Team Activity. The way We left it was Once I got to the Bar I would call Zander at Home and He would come on Down.

                   

I decided on a Local Old Man Dive Bar in the Area since called Maloney’s because I hate Sports Bars or Any Loud, Packed, and Obnoxious Bar for that matter. I also figured it was an Ideal Spot because the Drinks Were Strong and Cheap since being a Parent of Three Money as well as Time always seems to be an Issue. Now You must Understand a Few Things about Maloney’s to Understand some of the Reasons for the Confusion. First Off this was Back in the when People could Smoke in Bars allowing Them to get Cancer while becoming an Alcoholic. Maloney’s being a Old Man Dive Bar was full of Not Just Smokers, But Old School Smokers from Back in the Days when Doctor’s Did TV Ads for Cigarette Companies.

These were the Hardcore Smokers Who Woke Up ever Morning and the First thing They did was Light up a Smoke, and Use it to light the Next Smoke, and The Next, and the Next. They’d Chain-smoke all Day and Night Long just Lighting One Smoke off of the Previous One No Need for a Lighter or Match. Considering Maloney’s is/was a Small Hole in the Wall that at Most was around 500 Square Feet the Cloud of Smoke inside was Constant and Thick. Another thing about Maloney’s is the Lighting is Virtually Non Existent. It was so goddamn Dark that when You entered You had to Stand in the Door for Several Minutes while Your eyes did Their Best to Adjust to the Bare Minimum Lighting.

                   

When I got there with My Wife We Noticed a Handful of Regulars that We were Friendly with were Sitting at the Bar. We said Hey to the People We Knew and I started Drinking. It wasn’t until the 4th beer or So that I remembered I was supposed to call Zander. Well after 2-3 more Beers I actually called Him. Zander said His Wife was Cool with taking care of  the Kid Shit for the Evening. Zander then said  He’d be Down in about Half an Hour since He was Driving from His In-Laws Who lived a Town or Two Over. Since I had honored My Obligations I simply went back to Drinking. I had lost Track of Time and the Number of Beer/Shots I was consuming when My Wife Leaned Over and asked Me if That Was My Friend Who had Just Walked In. We Were in a Far Corner table Since I have to Sit where I can See Everything and Everyone due to being rather Paranoid. I strained My Eyes battling the Lower than Low Lighting, and Peering intently through the Heavy Cloud of Smoking hanging in the Room. The Man who had just Arrived was approximately the same age and Height as Zander so based on those Observations alone decided it was in deed Zander.

                    

As I walked across the Room the Man walked over and took a Seat at the Bar where He immediately started fucking with His Phone. I get one to the Bar and take a Seat on the Empty Stool Next to the Man still under the Assumption that I He’s My New Friend Zander. The Man doesn’t Acknowledge My Presence, in fact He didn’t bat single fucking Eye Lash He remained Face Down in His Phone utterly Oblivious. While I was approached the Bar I had heard the Man order a Vodka and Cranberry, and Not Knowing Zander’s Drink of Choice I used this to Break the Ice. I said “Vodka and Cranberry Huh?” to which the Man Ever so Slightly and I mean almost imperceivable to the Human Eye turned His Head in My Direction and Grunted something Obviously Not giving a Flying fuck about what I had to Say. I Sat there in a Confused Drunken Stupor trying to Figure Out what the fuck was going on with Zander. Had He had a Fight with His Wife on the way out the Door, Gotten a phone call with some Bad News on the Way Over, Or Perhaps He was just an Introverted Dick when He was Off The Clock.

                   

Before I can contemplate what to do in this Bizarre Situation My Wife comes Up Behind Me and Leans Over to Talk to Me. Ironically My Wife (the One Who had Pointed the Man to Me in the First fucking Place) informs Me that I am have Mistaken a Complete fucking Stranger for My Friend Zander, and She knew this since while I was Sitting at the Bar the Real Zander had Arrived. Luckily Zander had been able to Identify My Wife and had come over to the Table to say Hello and Properly Introduce Himself. Granted due to being Overtly Intoxicated (aka Drunk as Drunk can Be) I was Not at all Subtle in My Processing of this New Information courtesy of My Wife. I Jumped Off the Stool and Demanded to know, even though I was the Confused One, to know Who the Fuck was I Sitting Next Too, and What the fuck was He doing Here Exactly. I treated the Situation as if This Unknown Asshole was at Fault for the Mistake, as if He had Purposefully planned to Confuse the Hell Out of Me. This Obviously of Course was Not the Case at All.

My Wife Escorted Me back to Our Table where I greeted Zander and Proceeded to have an Extremely Enjoyable Night. In Fact God knows How Long its been Since I left that Job, but Zander and I still get out once in a while for a couple of Beers.

Thanks For Reading,

By Les Sober   

Another Day Down At The Old CNB Bar & Pawn

Bud Wiser was running an Hour Behind in His Daily Schedule since He had been up half the Night. Bud had the unpleasant Pleasure of being Sleep Deprived this Morning because His Dog had eaten a piece of Rotten Garbage out of the Kitchen Trash Can. The Rotten whatever the hell it was had given Bud’s Dear Dog a  Violent Case of Projectile Diarrhea that had wrecked Havoc for most of the Night.

Fuck Me This is NO GOOD Bud thought Over and Over  while Walking as fast as His Limp would allow Him to. Bud had a Very Distinctive Limp after an Alleged Accident at Work when a Kegerator Exploded (after being Sabotaged mind You) in an Assassination Attempt against Him that Never was Resolved nor Explained.

You see Bud was the Owner and Proprietor of the Local Favorite Water Hole   The Cock’n Balls Pawnshop and Bar. Bud had inherited the Establishment from His Father Miller who had Opened The Cock’n Balls with a Unique Vision of Combining a Bar and Pawnshop All in One. His Father had Opened The Cock’n Balls in the Fall of 1966 on the Outskirts of the Small City of Nowhere Special. Bud’s Father opened the Doors of His Life Long Vision after Retiring from a Lengthy Career at The Handy Leg Up Artificial Limb Factory.

   

Bud’s Father had chosen the Name because the Rooster (aka a Cock) was on the Wiser Family Crest. This was sue to The Wiser Family having been the Most Predominate and Wealthy Lithuanian Chicken Farmers in all the Land.  Since Pawnshops have been around for Thousands of Years when the Average Person couldn’t Read or Write the 3 Hanging Balls that had come to Symbolized Pawn Shops had been adapted to combat the Wide Spread Illiteracy of the General Public. So when You add them together Your left with the Simple and Explanatory Name The Cock’n Balls (and since the Bar Sign Company charged by the individual letter Bud’s Father opted to save the Cash and just Add Lib the ‘N instead).

The Day Bud’s Father Died His Body was Liquified, and Mixed into the Barfly’s Bloody Mary Mix. Then at the Memorial Service the Following Afternoon the Attendees were all given a Complimentary Bloody Mary to Celebrate the Life of (instead of Mourning the Death) of Miller Tyme.

Bud had preserved the exactly same Operational Proceeders that had been set out by His Father which included a Strict Adherence to Time to keep the Cock’n Balls running on Schedule. This meant Bud had to arrive at the Business No Later than 6 am  in order to get the CNT (As it was referred to by its Loyal Regulars) Ready to Open at 7 am Sharp for the Upcoming Day’s Drama. Today though Bud was an Hour behind due to the damn Dog, and He knew the Booze Loving Barbarians would already be Standing about on the Corner waiting for Him to arrive. And He wasn’t wrong not by a Long Shot.

        

The Gang of Usual Suspects were Standing about Lingering on the Corner outside of the CNB Chain Smoking like Fiends, and pacing Impatiently while  compulsively checking Their watches as if Their Lives fucking depended on it. The Group was Split between the CNB Regulars, and The Night Shift Crew who just got off the Assembly Line of one of the Near By Factories, and were just looking to Relax after Work even if They did get Off work at 7 am.

Some of the Regulars that had already arrived included Shitty Nickels the Local Blues Musician who had just Finished a Long Night of Playing at Numerous Local Night Clubs and Cocktail Lounges. There was “Bloody” Sod Bollocks a Self Proclaimed Intellectual who’s Family had immigrated from England back in 1495 just 3 years after the Pilgrims found Plymouth and its Famous Rock. The funny thing about the Bollock Family was even though They had immigrated over 500 years ago None of Them had Lost Their Thick English Accents.

     

There was The Local Bum Bawbag Cockwomble who spent His Days Panhandling and His Nights at The CNB Drinking away the Days Profits. There was also Mickey Drongo who Spent His Nights running an Illegal Chop Shop around the Corner from The CNB. Also there was Pissy Wristy the Neighborhood  Hooker, and  Jimmy Tosser the Local Small Time Drug Dealer. As Bud Approached the Corner Harry Twat who Spent His Days down at the Dog Track Gambling on Anything He possibly Could (the Only issue was Harry had truly shitty Luck) walked up. The Last to Show up was Dicky Dullard a Low Level Criminal, and Adamant Heroin Junkie who Lived to Chase the Dragon with Pride.

As Bud Walked Up He could hear Mickey Drongo and Bawbag Cockwomble arguing over Some asinine thing or an Other. Jesus They’re starting Early Today Bud thought while sighing under His Breath. All of a Sudden Bud’s presence was Announced aloud by Mickey Drongo the ChopShop Mechanic, and Immediately Bud was subjected to a Verbal Tidal Wave of Complaints, Criticisms, and just plain Bitching from the Small Group assembled on the Corner in front of CNB.

“Hold Yer goddamn Horses Already! God forbid You all have to Wait one minute more than Necessary without Whining like Ally Cats for a Tin of Tuna.” Bud Barked Angrily.

       

“Pardon Dear Proprietor while We do love You establishment it is rather unprofessional to keep your Clientele waiting for up to an Hour after the Posted Opening Time.” chimed in Sod Bollocks who had already collected the Days Papers in Hopeful Preparation for a Payday. Sod had been in a rather large Rut recently, and was running up Tabs all over Town as it were while He struggled to Win a Single Wager down at the Track.

“Well Hold Yer Horses a bit Longer, You may be ready but the Cock’n Balls isn’t. I have done any of the Prep needed for dealing with the like of Your Lot.” snapped Bud growing weary of the Barrage of on Complaints from the Barking Boozehounds standing at His Door Step.

Bud pushed His way through the Customers perched like Alcoholic Buzzards waiting for the Doors to Open so They could Feast on the Fluids of Fermentation. Bud fiddled with the finicky lock until it finally gave way and let Bud stagger inside abruptly closing the Door behind Him under the Crescendo of Cursing from His Customers as They would have to continue to wait.

       

Bud flicked on the Lights, checked to make sure the Toilet was still functional, inspected the Pool Cues to insure they weren’t broken or Warped, He doubled checked to make sure the Display Cases were Securely Locked, Wiped down the Bar, made Sure He had the Stock He needed, Unlocked the Door to the Basement which acted as a Make Shift Poor Man’s Drunk Tank for Overly Intoxicated and Uppity Patrons, and Cleaned off the Table Tops.  Then after He was fully satisfied Bud Opened the Doors at Last to the Great Relief of His Awaiting Patrons.

The Customers came pouring in like the Booze They poured down Their Throats. At this time of Morning all the Customers Gravitated to the Bar as Pawn Shop Customers general started showing up in the Early Afternoon. The CNT was split in Half by a Row of Rickety Tables, and a Motley Crew of Mis Matched Bar Stools that looked like each had been Salvaged from the Garbage on the Curb.

Once You entered the CNB the L shaped Old Oak Bar was directly to the Left along the Wall, and Directly to the Right was the Designated Pawn Shop Area. The Pawn Shop consisted of Display Cases housing Power Tools, Various Electronics, and Most Expensive Inventory (such Designer Watches or High End Pieces of Jewelry) lined the Wall with a almost equally as Long Display Counter filled with a Slew of Different Merchandise (Knives, Antique Coins, Lower end Jewelry, and Other Curiosities.

Each of the awaiting Patrons slid up to the Bar ready to start killing Their Livers as Quickly as Humanly Possible. Now because Bud Opened the CNB at 7am He served a what His Father had Dubbed “The Barfly Breakfast Special” which consisted of a Hot Dog, Pickled Egg, and a Draft Beer for $1.99. The Breakfast option provided Fuel for the Factory Workers after a Long Shift Toiling away performing Manual Labor, and it provided Fuel for the Regulars fora  Long and  Lingering Day of Drinking.

Mickey Drong The Owner of a Neighborhood Chop Shop picked the Spot at the Bar that was directly across from the Shitty and Barely functioning TV that was Hung on the Back of the Bar reminiscent of the way Motels did back in the Day when Mounted TV’s were what everyone was into. Sitting Next to Mickey was Bawbag Cockwomble the Pan Handling Alcoholic Bum who was still Babbling a Mile a Minute in Mickey’s Ear.

“Just BUY a Goddamn Egg it’s Only .25 Cents for Fuck’s Sake, and I damn well know even YOU have a crummy Quarter.” Mickey said exacerbated and trying His best to remain Civil.

“Yeah Yeah I do have a Quarter, but its designated for My Morning Shot of Grain Alcohol that Perks Me up and gets My Day off to a Good Start. I mean I need it, it’s fucking medicinal. I wonder around the Block for 12-14 hours a Day and My feet get all fucked up, Swollen and Sore shit like that.” whined Bawbag like a Cranky Child who wanted a Toy but Who’s Parents wouldn’t buy it for Them.

“That’s not My Problem it sounds like Yours to Me.” Snapped Mickey Sharply as His growing agitation started to get the Best of Him.

“All I’m saying Mickey is if Your going to Buy the Breakfast Deal Meal then You could just GIVE Me the Pickled Egg that comes with it. I could use the fucking Protien to help Me keep on Keeping On.” replied Bawbag indignantly as He too was getting rather Agitated at Mickey for not Forking Over the Pickled Egg Portion of His Breakfast.

“I have a great idea that will Settle this Little issue You Two are in the Mist Of.”, said Harry Twat the Neighborhood Deaerate Gambler with a Sly Smile stretched across His Face.

       

“And Whats That?!” ask Mickey unenthusiastically as the Whole Ordeal was wearing on Him at this Point He just wanted to be Rid of Bawbag and enjoy His Breakfast.

“A Wager, a Simple Bet will Fix it. The Bet shall be Whoever Eats the most Vomit Enducing Pickled Product Wins. Either Bawbag wins and Gets Mickey’s Pickled Egg or Mickey Wins and Bawbag has to leave Him Alone for the Entire Week.” proclaimed Harry Happily as if He had just Cured Cancer.

” I’M IN!!”blurted Out Bawbag fingering Win or Loose He was Going to Get Something to Eat out of it so fuck it Why Not?!

“Fine, I’m in Too. Whatever get this Pain in My Ass to Shut Up and go the fuck away so I can Enjoy My Morning with some fucking Peace and fucking Quit.” said Mickey having become absolutely exhausted by Now.

The Commotion had gotten the Attention of the Entire Bar Who’s Interest was Growing by the Minute. Bud went to fetch His Pressure Pickler (which is basically a Pressure Cooker modified for Speeding up the Pickling Process) that He had bought on impulse late one Night while He was watching Infomercials to combat His Insomnia. Once Bud returned to the Bar within  Seconds after the Bet was made the Suggestions came Flying Fast and Furious. Among the first set of Suggestions were:

Pickled Pigs Feet which Everyone Agreed were to Cliche to Count.

Pickled Pig Knuckles which Everyone thought was Better than Pig’s Feet but Still Not Impressive Enough.

Pickled Sausages Which actual turned into a Suggestion as an Addition to the Barfly Breakfast which Bud Agreed to do starting the Following Day.

Then the Suggestions began to get Uniquer and Stranger than the One before it. Shitty Nickels suggested Pickling a Cockroach, but Bud vetoed it because there were No Roaches in His Establishment and Didn’t See the point in Introducing Them Now.

Then Pissy Wristy suggested Pickling up some Tripe (Animal Stomach Lining) Next Dickey Dullard The Passionately Romantic Junkie suggested Pickling a Container of Head Cheese.

This was followed by Jimmy Tosser the Local Dope Dealer’s suggestion that instead of Head Cheese upping the Ante by using Chitterlings (Animal Intentions, Organs, Eye Balls Etc.all thrown together in a 5 Gallon Bucket) instead.

Then it was Harry Twat’s turn Who’s suggestion was to Pickle a Whole Haggis. After almost an Hour of Debate it was Bawbag who finally came up with the winning Suggestion.

          

“I Got it, I know what to Pickle! My Toe!” exclaimed Bawbag way more excited than He should have been.

“What are You saying exactly Bawbag?” ask Bud who was now becoming concerned that this Bar Bet had gotten completely Out of Hand.

“You see I have an Ingrown Toe Nail on My Big Toe that got Horribly Infected, But I didn’t have the Cash for the Clinic so I just banged it up as best I could and went about My Business.” explained Bawbag to the more than Attentive Bar Patrons.

“You could have gone to the fucking Free Clinic Bawbag You dumbfuck.” snarled Mickey who had become thoroughly Disgusted by the ongoing issue.

“No Way it got shut down last month due to Budget Cuts by the State and all that Red Tape Bullfuckery.” Bawbag retorted confidently.

“So what about Your Infected Toe again?!” asked Jimmy Tosser eager to return the topic of the Conversation to the Bet at Hand.

“Oh Yeah So it was all Infected and Shit so as time went on it Contracted Gangrene something fucking Ferocious too I tell Ya. It turned all Black from lack of Blood Flow and its already beginning to Rot Off so Why not kill 2 Birds with one Stone?! Win the Bet and get My Diseased Toe Amputated for Free I literally can’t fucking Loose.” bragged Bawbag growing quite Cocky.

“Fine Agreed The Bet is You have to Eat The Entire Severed Toe.” growled Mickey angrily.

“How the Hell are We going to Amputate it?!” wondered Pissy aloud.

“This is How We can use My Cigar Cutter to Lop it Off, and then all We have to do is Cauterize it. After that We apply some Triple Antibiotic Ointment, Wrap it up, and Thats It We’re Done.” said Shitty Nickels, “We did this kind of shit all the Time in Nam it’s easy if You know what the fuck You’re doing.”

The Bar Patrons along with Mickey and Bawbag made Their way over to the Nearest Table. Bawbag say down gingerly on one of the Wayward Stool and Then Took Off His Older than Old Beaten Up Boot. The Smell was so Pungently Rank it caused Pissy Wristy to instantly Vomit before Fainting. Bud picked Pissy Up off the Floor, set Her on the Bar, and revived Her by placing a Bottle of Cheap Gin under Her Nose like a Alcoholic Smelling Salts.

Bawbag paused to watch Bud take care of Pissy before He pealed off His rank Sock which made a Wet Sucking sound as Bawbag slowly removed it. The Smell which was already Over Powering the Bar immediately intensified to the Point Everyone’s Eyes started to Water, and Dickey Dullard shit Himself on the Spot.

Once Bawbag’s foot was Bare Shitty handed Him His Cigar Cutter which He crammed onto His Sickly Swollen Toe taking several minutes to Force it down to the Base of said Toe. Once the Cigar Cutter was in Place at Last Shitty Nickels instructed Bud to fetch the Ointment and Bandages from the Bar’s First Aid Kit. Shitty Nickels then had Harry retrieve a Large Butcher Knife that Bud used to Slice Lemons and Limes from behind the Bar. He then told Harry to start a Fire in the Tiny Metal Trash Can from the Bathroom. Then Shitty Nickels had Harry place the Blade of the Knife across the Top of the Trash Can so the Fire could Heat up the Knife until it was a Deep Glowing Orange.

       

Then Shitty Nickels had Bawbag place His foot flat on the Floor, Told Him He was going to count to 3, and on2 Shitty Stomped down with all His weight onto the Cigar Cutter. There was a brittle crunch and Bawbag’s Gangrenous Toe popped off and slid across the Bar floor coming to a stop under the Dilapidated Pool Table nestled in the Back of the Bar adjacent to the Restroom. Shitty pounced like a Cat of Coke snatching the Glowing Red Hot Knife and shoved it up against the Base of Bawbag’s recently Severed Toe . The Smell of Sizzling and partially Rotten Flesh drowned the Repulsive Smell of Bawbag’s Feet which most in Attendance appreciated especially Dickie and Pissy.

After 30 seconds or so Shitty removed the Knife tossing it carelessly onto the Bar causing Bud to lose His Shit. The Group returned to the Bar where Jimmy Tosser handed over Bawbag’s Diseased Digit over to Bud who plopped it unceremoniously into the Pressure Pickler and Turned it on. It seemed like an Eternity to the Eagerly Waiting Rag Tag Group of Drunks, but in Reality it was only 17 minutes before Bawbag’s Toe was completely Pickled.

       

Bud Opened the Pressure Pickler and Removed the Toe with a pair of Metal Salad Tongs, Placed it on a Cocktail Napkin, and handed it to Bawbag who seemed utterly unfazed by the whole Ordeal. Bawbag picked up His Toe examining it for a moment before tossing it into His Mouth. Bawbag chewed away until finally He Strained to Swallow. After some finagling Bawbag managed to get the Toe down, and then He opened His Mouth like Mental Patient to Visual Confirm He had in fact Swallowed the Toe. Bud stared blankly into Bawbag’s gaping Gullet before announcing Bawbag had completed the His Task thus making Him the Winner. Bawbag then turned to Mickey Drongo, Chuckled to Himself and the He said:

“I’ll be taking that Egg Now Mickey.”

       

Thanks for Reading,

 By Les Sober

Malice The Band That Almost Killed Us All Part 6

April 15th: Malice arrived at their suite at the Hard Rock Casino in Mackinaw Michigan (which back in the infamous 80’s was considered on the same creative social scale as NYC or LA.), and waited for their newly assigned opening act by their record label Razorback Records.

While they waited Malice free based a Kilo of 91% pure uncut Columbian Fish Scale while simultaneously  consuming 15 cases of beer, 19 bottles of Whisky, and an ounce and a half of PCP Laced Mushrooms, and ate 7 sheets of Acid (because waiting is boring so why not party your fucking face off they figured.) Plus the bands Lawyer TR McCoy and their Manager Harold Slickmann  had instructed the Band to DO NOTHING while they worked out the issues with the Band’s current Record Label Razorback Records.

As for Razorback they needed to put a tour deal together fast as fuck. Razorback Due to the  current disputes with Malice over creative control had lead abrupt cancellation of the remaining  Tour leaving them in the lurch like a motherfucker. They had to finish out as many of the original Tour dates as humanly possible to avoid backlash from pissed off Malice Fans.

Now due to all the drama Razorback was unhappy with Malice and that  played a part in their decision to hire The Assholes.The Assholes were at the opposite side of the spectrum from Malice.

Malice was a Glam Metal Band used to the luxurious life in LA being fawned over by press and fans alike for several months and had forgotten their entire lives previous to being famous. This I think most people can agree the massively exprbinte and copious amounts of Narcotics combined with Severe Alcoholism was/is to blame for the Band’s Unique Amnesia.

The Assholes on the other hand were a Trio from the Shitty Streets of the Shittiest Slums in Swansea Wales’s poverty stricken Industrial District. They grew up broke as fuck with Father’s that slaved away in the Various Factories or Sold Drugs. They had Mother’s that Worked 3 jobs cooking and cleaning (for the elite assholes living a life of splendor in the Huge Mansion’s in the Country) or Turning to Prostitution, Drink, and Drugs.

The only issue was The Assholes were currently on a Tour of their own with their fellow band The Squatters who hailed from Leeds and had similar backgrounds as the members of The Assholes. Not to mention the group’s singers met in the drunk tank one St. Paddy’s day after grossly over indulging in an obscene display of Alcohol throughout the day.

For this particular Tour The Assholes and The Squatters had combined both bands into one collective group they were calling The Asshole Squatters.

This lead Razorback to bend over backwards and take it in the preverbal metaphorical ass to put together. First Razorback had to hire The Asshole Squatters (not just the Assholes by themselves) because their management claimed it would be easier to promote the new 2 week Tour since two thirds of the audience already recognized the name.

Second Razorback would have to Pay the Appearance fee for The Assholes, The Squatters, and The Asshole Squatters as each group would be billing them separately. Razorback would also be financially responsible for their other expenses such as Travel, Room and Board. The Assholes also demanded that Razorback reimburse everyone involved in/with the last two weeks of the Asshole Squatters Tour that would be left ass out in lieu of The Assholes embarking on the new Malice Tour.

Razorback not having a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of had to agree to any and all conditions set forth by The Assholes or The Squatters. In the end the tiny new 2 week tour cost Razorback $12.3 Million in extra expenses.

April 16th: Malice had a pre tour meeting where they met The Asshole Squatters for the 1st time over Cocktails at the exclusive Club Pretentious. The meeting was a short one. The Members of The Asshole Squatters  spent most of their time chugging pints of Guinness, doing Irish Car Bombs, Rough Housing, Head Butting one another in some Bizarrely Violent Drinking Game (which they themselves had created just a couple of weeks ago while on a brilliant bender.)

Malice sat back drinking Bottomless Hurricanes (with Mescal on the side) watching their new opening act getting Raging Alcoholic Type Drunk, and snorting massive rails of Cocaine off a gaggle of clamoring wannabe Groupie’s Tits.

The 2 Bands barely spoke to each other and as for The Asshole Squatters they seemed to be mocking Malice throughout the entire ordeal. It was hard for Malice to determine if the Asshole Squatters were indeed mocking the shit out of them or was this the classic absurd comedic Wit the British were known for.

Troubled by the shitty meeting Malice’s manager Harold Slickmann sat down to discuss the matter with The Asshole Squatters Manager Sly Slapper over diner (at The Lux Barroom and Fine Eatery mind you). Slapper’s take on the situation was it was just a case of “Clashing Ego’s”and it would be no problem at all. He assured Slickmann that the Tour would be nothing less than copacetic once the Band’s Ego Issues calmed down.

This was a boldfaced lie and Slapper the slippery shit was well aware.

April 17th: To insure there wouldn’t be any further issues before the start of the tour the following day each Band’s Manager spiked ALL the Band Members mandatory morning Bloody Mary’s (which were made with 191 proof Grain Alcohol or as its more commonly known Moonshine) with a heavy dose of Horse Tranquilizers .The intensity of the Moonshine did a wonderfully brilliant job at disguising the foul taste of the ground up Horse Tranquilizers.

This effectively rendered both groups unconscious for 18 hours straight.

When the time came the Band’s Personal Medical Team would hit them with a Epinephrine  Shot via an Epi Pen, and BAM everyones awake, on their feet, and energetic like a Rocket Shot up their Ass.

April 18th: It was around 11 am when the Bands began to board their respective Tour Buses each suffering from a serious Horse Tranquilizer Hangover. It wasn’t until well past Noon that the Tour was finally on the road. The first show was in Saugatuck Michigan at the Tubular Theater.

Before the show even started the problems began. When Malice arrived at the Tubular Theater they were met the first problem head on. The members of The Squatters being arrested by Immigration Officers. Malice’s managed Harold Slickmann quickly jumped of the tour bus and made a mad scramble words The Squatters manager Sly Slapper.

According to Slapper the band was being detained and deported back to England to stand trial. The Squatters were charged with 117 counts of Vandalism, 91 counts of Destruction of Private Property,  88 counts of Destruction of Public Property, 351 counts of Public Drunkenness, 57 counts of Urinating in Public, 22 counts of Defecating  in Public, 117 counts of Breaking and Entering (The band had a issue with breaking into Liquor Stores after closing time in search of yet more Booze), 144 counts of Public Nudity, and 121 counts of Indecent Exposure (The band also had an issue with having sex with Fans/Groupies in Public).

To make a shitty situation even shittier the Fans(who had been waiting for 16 hours straight) out front for the doors to open were well aware of what was going on, and they were getting more riled by the minute as they watched one of the bands they came to see being arrested at the concert venue.

Malice who had extensive experience dealing with amped up and angry Fans from some disastrous concerts of their own. They immediately put a plan into action as the inevitable Riot was building rapidly. Malice gathered up their instruments and amps aboard their tour bus, called in a massive Beer Order with a local Beer Warehouse a few blocks from the show, and lastly they grabbed a duffle bag containing 5 kilos (11 pounds) of Pure uncut Bolivian Blow.

The scene outside had gotten savage as the Show Promoter had already called in the Cops. Malice Fans were pissed off at the Asshole Squatter Fans for fucking up the show, The Squatters Fans were enraged that the Band was being Arrested, The Assholes were angry about everything in general, and all the Fans were mad the Police had been called.

The high level of surging emotions had given way to pushing, shoving, insults, violent threats, minor vandalism, and the start of empty Beer bottles being thrown around in random response to the current state of affairs. The Police had called in back up and as Malice got ready to put their plan into action the SWAT Team rolled in.

Malice slowly opened the Emergency Hatch located on the roof of the Bus and crawled out onto the Bus’s Roof. They then had their Roadies hand up their instruments followed by their Amps. Malice also had their Roadies hand up several Confetti Cannons they had brought on tour. Once on top of the bus with their gear and supplies Malice started to assemble their standard stage set up transforming the Bus’s Roof into an impromptu stage.

As soon as the set up was complete Malice started playing Misfit Covers as loud as their equipment would allow. This sudden musical onslaught brought the chaos and conflict to a stand still as the stunned Fans and Police Officers alike looked on.

Malice capitalized on this by announcing that this was now a FREE Parking Lot Show and then fired off their Confetti Cannons that they had loaded up with the Cocaine. A giant white wave exploded over the Audience with a lingering cloud behind it as everyone there went fucking insane.

The Police were just happy to have the Riot haunted so they let Malice slide on the whole Huge Cocaine Cloud (and assorted shit like that) just as long as they got the fuck out of town immediately following the Parking Lot Show.

And thats exactly what they did.

April 19th: Malice was contacted first thing in the morning by their current Record Label Razorback Records. Razorback was absolutely irate about the previous night’s show which was also the first show of a ad-libbed Tour.

Malice had their Lawyer TR McCoy step in as mediator on their behalf. McCoy stated it was fucking insane that Razorback was even angry to begin with. McCoy went on to say that Malice had nothing to due with the Show going to shit. Malice wasn’t the ones being arrested, their Fans weren’t the ones pissed off by the arrest, and if it wasn’t for Malice’s quick thinking under extreme pressure in an emergency situation had in fact ENDED the Riot.

Razorback being complete and total  bitches switched the topic of the conversation to what they were going to do moving forward post riot. The tour they said would continue but because of last night fiasco being blasted across national television had been forced “due to circumstances beyond their control” cancel that nights show.

Razorback sited that the change was do due to “Unforeseen Expenses” complied with the exorbitant expenses used for putting the current Tour together in the first place was putting Razorback on the verge of filing Chapter 11 Bankruptcy. And because of the severity of the situation would require Razorback’s full and undecided attention putting the Tour on the back burner for a while.

You see the unforeseen expenses Razorback incurred were from a legal dispute between Razorback and The Squatters.

The Squatters claimed that since their arrest, and subsequent deportation was due to charges that were racked up from their previous Tour. And since the charges were not related to this Tour they deserved to be paid every single cent agreed upon by Razorback and The Squatters per their contract.

Razorback had to hire a full on legal defense team of Lawyers to handle the impending Lawsuit and their Counter Suite. According to their Lawyers Razorback considered their contract null and void as soon as The Squatters violated the terms, and thus were owed jack shit as far as they were concerned.

Malice’s Lawyer TR McCoy sighted a “Conflict of Interest” on Razorback’s part as far as Malice was concerned, and was planning to take them to court over it as soon as he got back to his office. Unbeknownst to Razorback at the time was that McCoy was already well at work putting a lawsuit against Razorback on Malice’s behalf. Malice was ultimately looking to terminate their contract with Razorback Records by any means needed.

April 20th: Malice curent Unnamed Tour with the Assholes was scheduled to play The Wicked Room in Grand Marais Minnesota. Once they Bands showed up there was an empty parking lot and a massive pile of what appeared to be charred bricks mixed with assorted rubble. There was a note from the Wicked Room’s Staff addressing the issue taped to a bottle of Croatian Rum that was standing atop the pile of aforementioned bricks and rubble.

The Note Read: To Whomever it may concern,

We the loyal staff of the Wicked Room have the misfortune to inform you that the Owner of the Club (Dolt Devonshire) ruptured a gas line in the basement, and blew the Club sky high while attempting to commit Insurance Fraud.  So Sorry We know this Sucks.

With the nights Fans only moments away from the defunct venue the Bands had to figure out what the fuck to do. Neither Band wanted to relive the previous nights shit show nor could they afford any more shitty press.

Then The Assholes Singer “Bloody” Sod Bollocks announced that since Malice had saved their asses last night that tonight they would be repaying the favor. In all actuality The Asshole could have give 2 shits about Malice they just thought it was a proper venue to showcase their Hardcore Thrash Punk music. That combined with the fact The Assholes were chomping at the bit to play to help vent some of their built up frustrations.

Malice decided to take their Fans in attendance that were pissed off by the fact Malice wasn’t playing to an all night drinking binge at a local Dive Bar and Shitty Strip Club Called  Beef Curtains.

Even though The Assholes acted like they didn’t give a flying fuck what Malice did they took Malice’s Stripper Boozelooza as slap in the face. They thought if Malice and their sniveling Fans didn’t care about the show well fuck them and fuck that.

April 21st: Malice spent the day at the Hotel Spa recuperating from their legendary hangovers, and The Assholes spent the day Drinking and Drugging like no tomorrow.

The 2 bands met up at that nights Venue The Radical in Bayfield Wisconsin. The tension was tenable as the Bands circled one another lingering like fucking Vultures waiting for their meal to finally die.

The Assholes went on first and played their first two albums (“Fuck You and The Finger” and “The Toss Pot Teachers”)  in their interiority.  The Band then went on to play 3 separate encores each consisting of 3-5 songs each. The Asshole’s finally played their closing song their current hit “Fuck Me Dead”. By then they had cut into Malice’s set by a good 45 minutes or so.

Malice was furious as they took the stage 45 minutes late. Malice used the show to mainly test out the audience’s reacting to some new songs they were coming up with for the New Album they planned to record as soon as they possibly could. Malice was sure to pepper the New Shit with some of their Big Hits to keep the Fans excited.

All in all the audience response was overwhelmingly positive as far as the new material was concerned. In fact Malice’s new Power Ballad “I’d Never Call You A Bitch Baby” garnered such a response from the Fan’s that they decided later that night that it would be the first single released.

Malice celebrated all night and into the following day until that nights show.

April 22nd: When Malice’s Tour bus rolled into The Spectrum in Elkader Iowa to find that The Assholes had already arrived and were in the middle of their soundcheck.

Malice walked into their dressing room to find it Trashed, Thrashed and Totally fucked. It smelled like a Truck Stop Bathroom mixed with a well used Locker Room. Every single piece of furniture (including the trash can) was busted and broken to pieces. The Catering table was upside down which was ok because it looked as if someone shit on the food platters anyway. Not to mention their toilet bowl was on fire reminiscent of a childhood campfire.

Malice’s blood boiled as they had fucking had it with The Assholes and their shittier than shitty bullshit. Luckily before all hell broke loose Malice’s manager Harold Slickmann arrived in the nick of time to prevent a brewing Shit Storm from becoming a Category 5 Shitnado. Slickmann swore up and down that if Malice played the show he would put and end to The Assholes dilemma.

Malice begrudgingly took the stage and the crowd went buck-fucking-wild sending Malice’s spirits soaring. The show was going exceptionally well until “Bloody” Sod Bollocks came staggering drunk as 10 Sailors (on well deserved Shore Leave) combined. Bollocks slowly made his way to the side of the stage just as Malice launched into (what they believed on audience response) was their new upcoming single “I’d Never Call You A Bitch Baby”

Once Malice got to the chorus of “…I’d never call you a bitch Baby” Bollocks armed with a Military Grade Bullhorn would yell at the top of his intoxicated lungs “Because I call you a cunt!”

Malice’s more than temperamental frontman Izzy Sane let Bollocks get away with his rude interjection twice but not a third time. Sane dropped his microphone, picked up the stand, swung it up over his head with both hands, and bolted to wards Bollocks like a Meth addicted Rodeo Bull. Once Sane reached Bollocks Sane brought the Heavy Metal Base of the microphone stand down on Bollock’s head like a Sledge Hammer.

The base of the Microphone stand came crashing down and slammed into Bollock’s head right above his left eye shattering his orbital socket, severely fracturing his cheek bone, and sending his eye shooting out into the audience. Blood started to pour out of Bollock’s freshly busted open head like a deep red river. Bollocks swayed for a minute before crumpling like a piece of paper to the ground.

Bollocks was unconscious, unresponsive, and there was blood now spurting out of the large gash in his head like a mini 18 inch fountain. One of the Stage crew sprinted to the phone and called 911. By the time the EMTs had arrived Bollocks was in the throws of full blown shock. The EMTs opted due to the severity of the injury and the patient’s quickly declining condition to to fly Bollocks to the nearest head trauma unit a Trama Hawk.

On the up side Malice’s Fans were so supportive they cheered Sane as they Fans were aware of the tenuous rivalry between the two touring Bands. Unfortunately for Sane the police were not so easy going and arrested Sane for Assault, Assault with a Deadly Weapon, and Attempted Murder.

The night ended with Malice on their way back to their hotel, and their manager on his way back to the Band’s Lawyer’s Office double time.

April 23rd: Finally the Tour to end all Tours had ended as doomed from the start. The Assholes had flown back home to England as soon as Bollocks was stable enough to travel.

Malice wanted to circle the wagons so they bought a 56 room Mansion located on 66 acres (for an estimated $151 Million) in the Hollywood Hills the day they got back in town. The Band figured it actually made the most sense since until then non of the Band members past or presently..

Malice members lived in hotels or on the Tour bus while on Tour or Traveling. In their down time Davie Scum was on the worlds longest Couch Surfing Run in known History, and Izzy Sane lived with his Girlfriend (and Malice Bassist) Maxi Padd in her tiny one room Studio Apartment. Rock Harder lived in a Shitty Hellhole of a Motel down by the by the Airport called The Wayfarers located between The Drunkard Tavern and Sparkles Strip Club.

It didn’t take long for Malice to move in as the members owned next to nothing outside of their cars. Meanwhile Harold Slickmann had sold his house prior to the last Tour and went and bought a $4.5 Million Luxury Executive RV. Slickmann parked his newly acquired RV in Malice’s extensive Drive Way where he planned to live indefinitely.

The Band’s Lawyer TR McCoy opted to sell his Penthouse so he could move into Malice’s new 10,000 square foot Guest House. McCoy felt with the forth coming barrage of legal issues that were about to defend upon the Band like The Anti-Christ surfing on an Avalanche.

The Band settled on the name “The House of Malice” as the official name of their Mansion Estate and set to work coming up with customized additions to the Mansion (example: Replacing the Water in the 100s of Fountains with Armand de Brigand Brut Gold (Ace of Spades) which cost $6,500 per 6 Liter Bottle.)

April 24th: Malice received an intensely aggressive call from their Record Label Razorback Records demanding a meeting immediately in their head office in the Van Nuys neighborhood. Malice piled into the Band’s 67 foot long custom Limo along with Slickmann and McCoy in tow.

When they arrived Malice was marched directly into Brock Rock’s office. Brock Rock who was the Owner and CEO of Razorback at the time. No sooner had Malice sat down Rock came charging in infuriated beyond belief with Razorbacks Legal Team right behind him.

Razorback started the meeting guns blazing. They were basically trying to blame all their costly fuck ups on Malice so they could sue them for reimbursement.

McCoy wasn’t having any of Razorback’s spastic bullshit fireworks. McCoy told Razorback that by neglecting their client Malice’s best interests by effectively booking substandard Opening Act(s) violated the terms and conditions of Malice’s Contract.

That combined with they fact that the failed second leg of the Mini Tour had totally tapped Razorback’s Bank Accounts so they wouldn’t be able to financially survive a long ass court battle before going completely bankrupt.

Razorback ended up releasing Malice from their contract as long as all disputes between both parties were henceforth Null and Void.

Malice was now a free Agent as it were.

McCoy had a glass of 70 year old Scotch.

Slickmann immediately started fielding offers from Competing Record Labels starting a furious Bidding War.

As for Razorback they did in fact end up going bankrupt, and Brock Rock was arrested for Embezzlement, Fraud, Insider Trading, Tax Evasion, and Aggravated Acts of Beastiality.

April 25th: Malice spent the day whole up in their Mansion reviewing various and plentiful possible future contracts from damn near every record label executive there was.

McCoy and Slickmann riddled down the Contracts to a Fianl Top 3 before involving the Band.

The 3 Top Contenders were Guillotine Records a relatively new up and coming Record Label that was racking up Big Name and Unknown Acts left and right.

Another was from Spittle Sound Studios owned by D-Rockafeller Recordings Inc. who was looking to expand their catalog and appeal by breaking into new musical markets. They were basically a Major Brand Record Label in Indi Clothing so to speak.

The Final Contract was from an International Record Label called The Nation of Noise Records (who’s HQ was located in International Waters on a retired Cruise Ship). They had been around for years, but never signed any act anyone would give two shits about like the Country Disco Jug Band Legend Howie “Pork Knuckle ” Pounder.

After serious deliberation along with a crate of Whisky, 26 Cartons of Cigarettes, a Pound of High Grad Marijuana, and 8 sheets of High Test Acid on  Guillotine Records signing a 5 Album Exclusive Deal.

Malice celebrated the Deal by Buying Ferraris and the hosting a Demolition Derby Party that went late into the night, and the Police only showed up 41 times for Noise Complaints and all that horseshit.

A good night was had by all.

April 26th: With a slew of new songs and material Malice and in great spirits ,and (after finally ending their troubled relationship with Razorback Records) having just signed a sweet ass deal with Guillotine Records headed into the Studio to get working on their new album.

Tragedy struck the Band once again while wailing on a wild Guitar Solo for the song “Sweet Heart, Wicked Soul” Davie Scum played so fast that his guitar caught on fire quickly consuming Scum in the blaze. Considering how flammable the cheap Spandex adorned with Chinese Dragons, and the entire bottle of Aqua Net Scum used to style his hair it was no real wonder why he combusted so quickly.

Luckily for Malice they were finished recording their new new album titled “Finding Heaven In Hell” so all that was left to be done was Editing the Recorded songs.

Malice had to pay the $17,890 cleaning bill for the Studio to clean off all the smoke stains and little BBQed pieces of flesh from the walls, floors and ceiling (Not to mention they had to Neutralize the Oder of a still smoldering  Human Body)

When Slickmann heard the news he grabbed the extremely large 3 ring binder filled with Musicians Resumes he had created due to the fact Malice Members had a bad habit of dying, and granted a couple left to purse other pursuits.

By the end of the day Malice had completed their new 19 song album, edited it, lost their Guitarist to a freak guitar playing accident, and interview the top replacement Guitarists.

That night around 4 in the morning suffering from a drug fueled insomnia Malice selected their new Guitarist Stevie “The Shill” Stevenson who had played with such acts as Murder in Minutes, Killing Trolls, The Lot Lizards, and the Legendary Black Metal Band Nordic Slaughter.

April 27th: While waiting for their new guitarist Stevie “The Shill” Stevenson’s to arrive at the studio (he was flying in from his Private Island Shill Key in the Florida Keys that afternoon) Malice realized that they in fact not only recorded their new album in one day, BUT they had 87 other songs on tap.

With this revelation Malice felt they had only one choice, and that was to release a DOUBLE ALBUM. Malice then spent the morning listening to all 87 songs before selecting 22 songs that would make up the second Album titled “The Hardships of Hell”.

By the time Stevenson made his appearance at the studio Malice realized while now that the Double Album they had recorded 41 brand new tracks they still had 46 additional songs.

So Malice thought about it awhile before coming up with the idea of releasing a rare TRIPLE ALBUM, and set out selecting which of the leftover 46 songs they would use. They came together and agreed on this Albums title would be “From Heaven To Hell and Back Again” consisting of 17 songs and 4 singles. The singles the Band decided upon were “Into The Night We Go”, “After Party Freak Show”, “Dive Bar Babes”, and “Lets Get Laid”

When Stevenson arrived he pointed out that Malice still had 29 songs left at their disposal, and suggested Malice release the World’s 1st QUADRUPLE ALBUM. And of course Malice lost their fucking minds over the idea. In return for such an awesome idea Malice rerecorded the last set of 29 songs with Stevenson so he’d be credited for playing on the Album.

Malice even let Stevenson pick the name of the 4th Album and he dubbed it “Entering Heaven/Exiting Hell” sticking with the ongoing theme of Paradise and the Pit.

Malice partied into the early hours of the morning doing Actual Tequila Shots (that is they drew up Tequila in 6cc syringes and injected it directly into their veins.)

April 28th: Malice’s Quadruple Album was an instant success as rabid Fans bought out Record Store after Record Store across the country. The Media Buzz was deafening as Malice’s Phones where rigging off the hook like a real motherfucker. Reporters of kinds camped out in front of Malice’s Mansion Estate gates leading Hardcore Fans to follow suit creating a sizable tent city situation.

Malice spent the entire day lounging around Mtv hanging out, day drinking and acting as impromptu Guest VJs (not to mention banging groupies during commercial breaks or when a video was airing)

By the end of the Business Day Malice’s World Wide Album Sales totaled an estimated $976 Million. The one day success gave way to the rumor that The Chairman of Forbes reportedly shit his pants when he saw the numbers the following morning.

April 29th: Tickets for Malice’s upcoming Tour to promote their Quadruple Album went on Sale at Noon Sharp and 6 seconds later every single American Date of the Malice was completely Sold Out. Which totally blew the tits off of Guinness Book of World Records.

Now Malice was at task scheduling Shows for the subsequent following World Wide Tour. For inspiration the Band went to their Restaurant Take Out Menu drawer. After a few minutes skimming over the large collection of Take Out Menus Malice had set up dates in Thailand, China, India, Mexico,Italy, and Japan.

Malice used the rest of their spare time to practice relentlessly with their new guitarist Stevie “The Shill” Stevenson, and over indulging in Hedonistic pursuits.

April 30th: Malice went to down customizing their recently acquired Mansion and Estate. First they had a 4 operate Helicopter Landing Pads one for each of them. Next they turned 2 of their 66 archers into a Mobile Home park loaded with Triple Wides for their Friends, Roadies, Mansion Staff, or as a crash pad for party guests who were to shitfaced to drive.

Izzy was a devoted movie fan so he used 12 archers to build his own Independent Movie Studio he called Ponder This Pictures and Perverse Productions. The Studio was intended to be a stage for struggling independent film makers to help them achieve their dreams. In the end though it sat virtually unused accept for the filming of some extremely high end Homemade Sex Tapes/Full Blown Porno Flix.

Stevie took 5 archers and build a pond so that he could stock it with some of his favorite fish like Alligator Gar, Giant Snakeheads, Electric Eels, Wells Catfish, and Giant Carp just for starters.

Rock used 7 archers to build his own Amusement and Water Park complete with the motto which was  “Neverland is for PopStars”.

Maxi used 1 achar to build a massive Temperature Controlled Greenhouse with a high tech Sprinkler System. She billed as an attempt at Sod Farming. She also took another 4 to built a Small Farm where she had several Cows. At night Maxi would let the Cows graze in the Greenhouse where inevitable Cows being Cow’s would crap all over the fucking place. She claimed it was a trade off of Free Cow Feed and Free Fresh Organic Manure. In reality the set up was designed to be the perfect growing grounds for Magic Mushrooms (or Shrooms for shirt).

  

Other custom additions included seeing up a professional fire work rig on the roof, indoor and out door shooting ranges, ATV Trails, Skate Park, Pirate Ham Radio Station, NASA Flight Simulator, Hi Li Court, installing water fountains rigged with Goldschlager (with its original Alcohol Content of 53.5% or 107 Proof), A Reptile House, 30 Run Dog Kennel, Racing Track, Driving Range (because hitting the shit out of the ball is the only fucking fun part of Golf so fuck the bullshit), Wave Pool, Bocce Ball Court, and 24k Toilets/Urinals encrusted in Gem Stones (“Crapping like a King” as their manager Harold Slickmann would say.

  

April 31st: Malice dedicated the day to preparing for the “Salvation and Damnation Tour” by rehydrating with IV Fluids, Laid off the Narcotics in favor of just Smoking Weed, Only Drank Light Beer, Getting 8 hour massages with 45 minute “Happy Endings”, Meditating, forgoing Sex for Blow Jobs, and Blood Doping.

MALICE: THE BAND THAT ALMOST KILLED US ALL PART 7 COMING SOON

Thanks for Reading,

Les Sober 

Yet Another Reason Not To Visit Mexico

One day my good friend Danka and I were drinking on the stoop of Danka’s house playing the “Most Fucked Up Story Game”. The game is rudimentary and simplistic. The goal is to tell the most fucked up story of the evening thus becoming the winner.

Dana served a short time in the United States Navy before being discharged for being an Alcoholic who was “Derelict of Duty” or some stupidly phrased bullshit statement. You see Danka had a habit of going binge drinking while on shore leave which resulted in a semi concous Danka being dragged to returning to the ship for check in by his fellow soldiers. Finally Danka out did even himself by missing Check In in favor of chilling at some waitresses’s apartment he was hooking up with in Tijuana, eating Captain Crunch cereal, and watching American cartoons in Spanish. Well that was the final straw that broke the preverbal Camal’s back, and the Navy booted Danka instructing him never to return to any branch of the United States Military ever again.

Before being unceremoniously kicked out of the Navy Danka had spent several months down in Tijuana Mexico were he was temporarily stationed for some fucking Navy related reason. While in Tijuana Danka learned some  tactics for day to day safety and survival that weren’t taught in the Navy. It was simply how to navigate daily life in Tijuana without running into trouble with Thieves, Drug Dealers, Pimps, Gangs, Cartels, Muggers, Car Jackers, Con Artists, Drug Addicts, Hookers, Ex Convicts, Militias and Corrupt Cops.

Now with the corrupt Cops it was basic Extortion. If a Tourist per say wandered into the wrong neighborhood the Cops would arrest them, and then drive them directly to an ATM. The Police Officers would then demand a bribe of usually $300 U.S., BUT if you refused to pay they would take you to jail on some bullshit trumped up charge. While it goes without saying that Jail fucking sucks, and is one of the last places anyone would want to find themselves especially in a foreign 3rd World Country. Mexican Jails have a foul reputation for being filthy, over crowded, understaffed, Bribing of Guards, Murders, Rapes, and inhumane living conditions for the most part.

This is what happened to Danka’s buddy named Blackburn. Blackburn was on shore leave and had had a few drinks when he wondered off the main fairway into a shitty neighborhood. While desperately trying to find his way back, which was complicated by his intoxication, Blackburn was picked up by a couple of Corrupt Cops looking for a quick pay day. The Cops drove Blackburn to the ATM and demanded payment ($300 U.S. per Officer times 2 for a total of $600 U.S.), and Blackburn told them too fuck off because he wasn’t giving them a single goddamn cent. So the Cops threw Blackburn into the back of the squad car, but instead of taking him to the nearest shithole jail they drove him to a sleazy Dive Bar on the outskirts of the city that featured Nightly Donkey Shows (if you don’t know what a Donkey Show is Google it) The police shoved Blackburn into the dimly lit backroom of the Bar and tied him to a rickety wooden chair. The Police then proceeded to sell Blackburn to the Bar owner for $775 U.S. and then left quickly.

The Bar owner had one of his cronies take Blackburn out back to a Small Barn located next to the Bar. Once there Blackburn was stripped buck naked and tied to a barn post. The Bar Owner’s henchmen then ground up 3 or 4 bottles of Viagra and mix them with a quarter ounce of Crystal Meth. Once the concoction was full mixed together the Side Kicks laced a 32 ounce Corona with it, and then fed it to a Donkey that was penned up in a cramped stall. About 50 minutes later the Donkey had a raging 18 inch erection and was violently kicking the sides of the pen. One of the Cronies then untied Blackburn from the post, and then tied his hands behind his back while the other crony aggressively lassoed the inscenced Donkey. The 3 men and the doped up Donkey then made their way over to the Bar and entered through a side delivery entrance.

The Bar smelled like hot stale beer and body oder mixed with piss. There were a handful of patrons spread out through out the Bar that was so smoky it was like being trapped in a fucking mist or some shit. The Henchman responsible for Blackburn took him over to a worn out Pummel Horse that was held together with Duct Tape. He then bent Blackburn over the Pummel Horse and bound Blackburn’s wrists and ankles together. Next a shitfaced MC comes on a beat 1972 PA System to announce the Nightly Donkey Show is Starting. After a short pause to allow the Bar Patrons time to freshen their drinks and light a smoke the 2nd Henchman dragged the Donkey over fighting it every step of the way. As the Donkey was being brought over the Bar Owner came over to Blackburn and sprayed him with Female Donkey Pheromones and Menstrual Blood to get the deranged drugged up Donkey’s attention. It worked. It worked extremely well. In an instant the Donkey got a whiff of Blackburn and galloped over to him, and mounted Blackburn placing its front legs on Pummel Horse on either side of Blackburn. As soon as the Donkey penetrated Blackburn it went fuck wild, this Donkey wasn’t playing “Just The Tip” with Blackburn he was slamming shaft balls deep in Blackburn’s battered butthole. It took about 17 minutes before the Donkey finally completed and its semen was seeping out of Blackburn’s broken butthole like a garden hose.

Blackburn was about to be loaded into a car and left to die of his injuries in the Desert to die when the a group of American Military Police busted in the front door of the Bar with a vengeance. Blackburn had to be taken out on a fucking stretcher and Medivaced by Helicopter to a Special Surgical Trauma Hospital in Seattle Washington. Blackburn lived after spending the better part of a year in the Hospital where the Surgeons removed just over 8 feet of his intestines, rebuilt his bowls, reconstructed his rectum, and stitched up his sphincter. Blackburn was discharged from the Navy Under Section 8 Status due to his Donkey Rape induced PTSD. He moved home to Shasta South Dakota and lives in his Mom’s basement on permanent disability watching Anime while drooling on himself while playing with his pecker making guttural sounds.

Needless to say there was no fucking way I could top that Tale of Terror in Tijuana so Danka went home that night quite drunk and the most fucked up story winner.

Thanks For Das READ,

 

Les Sober 

The Deviant Detective Ep.2 : Getting Directions From The Blind

Readers: There are a great deal of Obscenities and Blasphemies in the following Story. Heads up and Have A Nice Day.

 

 

“Rock Hard that you,” asked the stranger as they leaned against the wall for support.

“Yeah I’m Rock Hard come into my office and tell me what the problem of yours is.” said Rock in his authoritative professional detective voice.

Buy the time Rock reached his office door he knew who the stranger was. It was underground punk rock icon and lead singer for The Furiously Fingered Five Ivy Savage.

She wreaked of cheap gin and cheaper cigarillos. Jesus Christ Rock thought to himself she’s a fucking train wreck. It was obvious the rumors where more than true.

The Meth induced orgies, shooting smack in her snatch, drug smuggling, assault, DUIs, countless rehabs, grand theft auto, drug possession, and possession of an illegal fire arm 4 times in 6 months that fucking Ivy Savage.

Rock jingled his key in the office door until it begrudgingly opened.

The door swung open slamming into the wall so hard the glass shook like a new prostitutes on her first “date.”

Rock walked over to his antique solid oak desk he had salvaged when the city demolished the 1930’s repossession power house Snide, Pompous and Braggart back in 1974. Rock slowly lowered himself into his chair as it creaked in protest.

“So if it isn’t the infamous Queen of Punk Ivy Savage, your reputation precedes you,” Rock said eying his new client up and down.

“I’m fucking used to that propaganda puke, its all horse shit a huge fucking load of steaming hot horse shit.,” Ivy replied angrily.

Ivy was pacing like a jack rabbit on a coke bender constantly fidgeting with her hands. As she spoke Rock took note of her eyes and how the darted around his office unable to stay focused on a damn thing. These were the classic signs of a rock bottom gutter dwelling druggie.

“Whats the problem,” Rock asked bluntly.

“My motherfucking boyfriend is fucking missing and I can’t find my bitch,” Ivy replied coldly.

“How do you know he didn’t just split or end up in the ER for overdosing something along those lines?!”

“I’m his goddamn meal ticket and that little scummy shit damn well knows it. I pay for our booze, drugs, food and hotel room down at The Opulent Oasis for christ’s sake. He’s a fucking moron but he’s not that goddamn dumb.”

“Alright then when did you see your boyfriend last Ms. Savage?”

“Call me Ivy for fuck’s sake, theres no Ms. about me thats for sure. I saw him just last night when we were having a private party in our hotel room. I went to take a shit, it was round 3 am or so and nodded off on the toilet. When I came to it this morning it was 11 fucking thirty and he was gone.”

“Whats his name, whats he go by,” asked Rock as he started to get rather irritated. To calm his nerves he took a long slow sip from his flask and let the whiskey do the rest.

“He goes by Eddie Oi he’s the base player for The Fuck Me Pumps,” said Ivy mattarfactly her voice void of emotion.

“Where does Eddie and his band or friends hang out at. Where do they spend their time? Where do they go? What do they do all damn day?”

“I’m not his fucking biographer. This is the shit I know bout to answer your fucking questions. Eddie doesn’t have any fucking friends just goddamn dope dealers and drug buddies. As for him and his shitty band they spend a good amount of time at The Barfly Lounge down on the skids. He sees his main dealer at least 8 times a day scoring dope and all that drug shit.”

“Eddie got a record?”

“No and thats a fucking surprise and a half. He’s never even been arrested for drunk and disorderly nothing, not a single goddamn thing so that won’t help your search.”

Rock lazily moved the files on his desk around randomly just to look more than what he was a dinosaur and a goddamn drunk with a violent disposition. Rock shunned technology whenever possible unless it was absolutely necessary, but Rock decided to revisit the idea of getting a computer so he could fain interest while surfing the internet.

“Look just find the fucker and let me know so I can bitch slap his stupid ass back in fucking line,” demanded Ivy.

“Calm down I’m taking your case and I’ll find Eddie no matter where he is or where he may be hiding at I assure you of that,” Rock said in total confidence.

“Thank god for that then.”

“I’ll need a retainer of $1,200 plus daily expenses. Take it or leave it I’m not the one with the problem.”

“Call my fucking manager Harvey Schister. His number is 555-7683 and he’s a real son of a bitch but don’t take his shit because he’s full of shit.”

“Alright then I will call Mr. Schister this afternoon and get started immediately after I get my retainer.”

“Well I’m gonna piss off then, but I’ll be on top of you like a 600 pound prison booty bandit, I don’t take shit from anyone ever.”

With that Rock showed Ivy to the door locking it behind her. Rock didn’t want to be disturbed he had to process his meeting with his new client Ivy Savage. Where could he find the best leads he wondered as he lit a cigarette blowing the smoke out of his nose like a exhausted dragon.

This case is going to be a goddamn drunken drugged out insanely dark horror show Rock was convinced of that.

To Be Continued in The Deviant Detective Ep.3 : Finding The Cock Rock King.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Was A Teenage Murder Junkie Part 2: Concert Of Carnage

G.G. Allin strode out on stage from behind Dino the Naked Drummer with a look of hateful disgust contorting his face. G.G. was wearing a pair of unlaced combat boots that kept tripping him up (it didn’t help that G.G. appeared to be severely drunk or drunk and high perhaps.). G.G. was sporting his token jock strap with “EAT ME” written in black sharpie on the front. Lastly G.G. had on a tattered tan trench coat that had been tagged by a black Sharpie which was used to scrawl “G.G. Allin & The Murder Junkies” down the back. G.G. made his way to the front of the small stage which in reality was more of s slightly elevated platform, and paced back and forth like a enraged tiger that had gone insane from captivity. G.G. grabbed the microphone from the stand like it owed him money and started singing ,but it was more or less yelling his lyrics at the top of his voice making the words hard to decipher at times. The 40-50 person crowd that had piled in behind us at the very last minute became electrified with a combination of fear and absolute awe. I then remembered what Unk had said about the safest place at the show being behind G.G. and thinking whatever happens we’re proper fucked. Due to the crowd forming behind us now Mike, Chuck and I had effectively moved forward into the front of the audience putting us on the front lines. By the time G.G. and The Murder Junkies ended the first song “Bite It You Scum” I was hooked, I had to see for myself what all of the hype was about first fucking hand.

To say G.G.’s reputation proceeded him would be the understatement of the millennium BUT thats another story all together so I digress for now anyway.

After the song ended G.G. tore off the duster like a wounded animal and addressed the crowd. “Did  you miss me?!” asked G.G. like a demented drill sergeant  “Yeah the fucking pigs, the goddamn pig judge those motherfuckers locked me up, they tried to break me, but they didn’t know shit, I’m fucking unbreakable!!” he continued angrily. By now the crowd had backed up forming the body of the audience into a U formation leaving a wide berth in front of the stage. It was in this vacant space that a couple of young fans in black metal t-shirts and torn jeans were slam dancing. G.G.’s tyrannical rant continued “I’m here and I’m really fucking pissed, you’ll being hearing a lot about me in the next couple of months THATS for sure!! Look into my eyes and hate me!” as the band started banging out the G.G. fan favorite “Look Into My Eyes and Hate Me”

I was in shock, frozen like the preverbal deer in the head lights with my eyes wide open fixated on G.G. ,and remembered a quote I had heard that said G.G. Allin was his own one man version of a freak show. How true those words rang now deafening in my head. It was then that some drunk kid with a shaved head did something to piss G.G. off who responded by bounding off stage onto the show floor. G.G. damn near ran at the guy who didn’t see G.G. coming because he was aimlessly spinning in a circle, and once G.G. reached the kid he hauled off and punched in the kid in the face. The startled kid swung wildly in self defense as G.G. continued to punish this kids discrepancy with his fists. After a minute or so a couple of other fans stepped in and dismantled the mayhem as one fan grabbed G.G. around the waist, swung him a 180 degrees, and then shoved him words the stage. G.G. jumped back on stage and picked up the microphone which he had dropped before getting into the fight with the shaved head kid. G.G. picked up right where he left off ending “Look Into My Eyes and Hate Me” flawlessly. Little did I know that the chaos I had witnessed was just the beginning as this engine of insanity was just warming up.

The next 15 minutes of the concert I can sum up by song:

“Die When You Die”- during this popular G.G. anthem G.G. poured a pitcher of cheap beer over his head, slammed the microphone repeatedly into his head until he bled, and left the stage this time to writhe on the filthy cement floor flopping around like a fish out of water that was set on fire.

“Legalize Murder”- during this particular song G.G. played with himself several times, ran out into the audience crashing into fans like a drugged out bumper car. G.G. then returned to the stage where for the rest of the song he cut his chest with a crumpled up beer can while flailing around like a man possessed by demons during a Meth binge. At the end of the song G.G. took a few minutes to ask where the sluts and whores were at as he quickly drained a pint of Jack Daniel’s, and asked the audeince who of them likes to drink,fight and fuck before finally playing the next song in the set.

“I Wanna Fuck Myself”- G.G. look a leak in the corner, played with himself repeatedly, had another fist fight this time with the beer junkie over G.G. helping himself to a couple of beers with no intention what so ever of paying. G.G. slammed his head violently against a pipe that lined the east wall of the venue a couple of times, and G.G. throwing  garbage cans into/at the audience all the while bleeding like a stuck pig his face a veritable crimson mask.

“Shoot, Knife, Strangle, Beat and Crucify” was the next song during which G.G. ditched his jock strap and ran completely naked through the crowd and around the perimeters of the basement the show was being housed in. G.G. stopped singing intermittently during his manic antics some times never finishing the song as The Murder Junkies played on not missing a beat.

“Gypsy Motherfucker” was highlighted by G.G. throwing the mic stand into the audience, shoving a female fan to the floor, a Microphone malfunction, and more of G.G.’s ranting this time over the microphone’s failure.

“What kind of dive bar piece of shit is this? Bunch of goddamn bullshit, can’t get a decent cocksucking mic, who do I have to kill to get decent gear  really? Cuz I’m about to find that fucker and murder them!” G.G. asked aggressively to no one in particular.

This served only to incite the crowd into further rowdiness as fans yelled out their support for G.G. with a growing angst and enthusiasm. G.G. got off stage for the umpteenth time to wander around the concert venue pounding beers along with cocktails he grabbed out of the fans hands as the microphone issue wasn’t being addressed. The Murder Junkies stood around loitering on the stage in some state of confusion as G.G. handled his complaint. Finally some rail thin greasy looking stage tech scrounged up a back up microphone from the bowels of the bar. G.G. snatched it from him immediately and plugged it in as if he was trying to murder the mic by stabbing it with the cord.

“Alright now we’re talking, what the fuck was that bullshit fucking unprofessional assholes” G.G. announced mumbling to the crowd as they became yet more frantic by the minute. You could feel the energy escalating, higher and higher as the adrenaline was flowing freely kicking in the intensity of the fight or flight principle. Tensions were so strained that at any moment it seemed the room could erupt in a full on, full blown riot of biblical proportions.

“Now we’re going to play is what the fuck I am a Son Of Evil!” G.G. snarled in a low growl of sorts. 15 seconds into the song the lights went out. Mike, Chuck and I were now standing side by side in total blackness, not darkness mind you I’m talking black like the finality of death itself. The only lights as I’ve mentioned were the stage lights which now had become enveloped along with everything else in the pitch black of the bar’s basement. The stunned crowd started chattering like a swarm of locusts as people tried to deduce what had happened or what had possible just happened to cause the black out and so suddenly at that. Several minutes passed as the questioning crowd grew more irritated than fearful over the total lack of light. The sounds of frustration started to ring out, the breaking of glass beer bottles, the loud and violent yelling ( “Lets fuck shit up!” “Fuck this shit!” “Burn this shithole down” “Fuck this I paid 5 bucks for a fucking ticket and I get this bullshit! “Hell fucking no!” are a few examples of what I heard.) and other various sounds of impending destruction all around us.

As the crowd wound itself up to a fevered pitch I had a reoccurring thought.

“If anything happens we’re proper fucked.”

I Was A Teenage Murder Junkie Part 1 of 2

The first time I heard “Bite It You Scum” by G.G. Allin and The Murder Junkies, I was standing in the dungeon-like basement of The Barfly Lounge somewhere in the bowels of Philadelphia’s less then desirable south side, which was the only venue that would host a G.G. Allin and The Murder Junkies show. I was with my two work partners in crime Mike (a photographer) and Chuck ( Event liaison) who had found out about the concert the previous month while visiting Chuck’s sister who lived on South Street in Philly. This was the pre-internet era so the only way for unsigned bands to promote their shows was papering every free surface with flyers up and down the street. They also relied heavily on the power of word of mouth. It was one of those flyers, tacked to a telephone pole, that Chuck saw as he was walking down the street on his way to buy a pack of cigarettes. We decided it was a show that was a once in a life time chance not to be missed. So Chuck had approached our editor Vincent V. at “Grind Spine” magazine where all three of us were currently working while taking some time off before college.
We had made the hour long drive over to Philly from Gitsville NJ in Chuck’s car which in all due favor was a complete junker. The driver’s door shook so bad you thought at any second it would pop open. The speedometer was not to be trusted. There was a hole in the floor board. The radio only got one AM station, and the car seemed to have a front head light that was eternally out. When we arrived at the bar there was no appropriate parking so we had to park on the street four blocks away and walk. The corners were inhabited by hookers and drug dealers. The streets were lined with litter and more than a few homeless panhandlers. This was the type of neighborhood that if you drove through it you wouldn’t stop at red lights. Finally, we got back to the bar unscathed and in one piece, and then the door man (who looked to actually be a local biker) barely glanced at ID’s before letting us in with the stern warning “You guys don’t start any shit and I won’t have to beat the shit out of you.”
After such nice parting words from the doorman, the three of us shuffled single file through the narrow doorway of the bar. The Barfly Lounge was a small and rather cramped 500 square feet with an L shaped bar to the left. The right side of the room hosted a motley crew of tools, chairs, and wobbly tables. The only apparent patrons in the bar looked like a small group of local regulars from the surrounding neighborhood most sitting hunched over at the bar, a beer clutched tightly in one hand, and either a lit cigarette or shot glass in the other. The lighting in the bar was well beyond dim as the few spare lights that hung from the ceiling were enveloped in a thick pungent cloud of smoke that hovered like a smog cloud over Los Angeles. The thing I will remember most about The Barfly till the day I die was the overwhelmingly putrid stench, a vile smelling mix of stale beer, body odor, cigarette smoke and what we all assumed to be vomit.
“The show is in the basement. The door is in the back, next to the restroom.” said the bartender in a deep gravely voice reminiscent of Tom Waits. We slowly made our way to the back of the bar trying to see where we were going in order to avoid tripping or worse, falling onto the cesspit of a floor, and as we walked by a few of the weary down trodden customers lifted their heads just enough to stare at us as we passed. The door to the basement was a hideous dark green and had a thick greasy coat of nicotine . We cautiously proceeded down the bare concrete stairs I couldn’t help thinking that I had seen plenty of horror movies that started like this. We entered the gloomy basement which smelled so heavily of mold and mildew you had to wonder how being in this environment could negatively affect your respiratory system. We had come to far to turn back. The only light in the dank basement were the stage lights which were actually quite intense with a white light that almost felt like when you stared into the sun as a kid. Rusty exposed pipes hung from the ceiling several had been patched with duct tape and were in various stages of deterioration. There were only a handful of people lingering around waiting for the show to start in growing impatience. There was a thin lanky man about six foot two who looked like he weighed 160 pounds soaking wet and was no doubt a junkie, but he was a junkie selling 16 ounce cans of Budweiser for $3.00 a piece out of a couple of dirty igloo coolers at his feet to fund his heroin habit. Suddenly the The Murder Junkies (G.G. Allin’s last backing band before his death in 1993)  wandered lazily onto the stage where the bassist and guitarist plugged in their instruments and did a quick tune up. The drummer came out completely naked fully having earned the nickname Dino The Naked Drummer (who played naked so while drumming his clothes wouldn’t chafe his skin) and sat down behind the drums looking a bit lost as usual. It was then I became aware as I was watching the cliches and stragglers about fifty people or so had piled into the basement behind us, but were standing at the back of the room the farthest they could from the stage. The band all of a sudden launched full tilt into one of their signature songs “Bite It You Scum” and the crowd went feral. A young man who identified himself as Unk asked if we had been to a G.G. Allin show before and we said no we hadn’t. Unk went on to tell us he had found the safest place to be at G.G. Allin shows and that was behind him. No sooner had Unk finished speaking than the man referred to as the most spectacular degenerate in rock-n-roll history took the stage.

Befuddled By The Bartender

Last night I went to my favorite dive bar which is a dark, smoke filled,tiny hole in the wall filled with all kinds of characters. This makes it my favorite place not only to drink with friends but to people watch as well. The bartender working last night is far from my favorite because she is too fucking odd to live (so you never know wtf your walking into) so best to stay off the radar as they say. Last night she was aggravated because for once it was almost a busy night. The first bizarre interaction was when I went up to the bar to get another beer at which point the bartender said and I quote “You drink too fast.” First off I wasn’t drinking any sort of cocktail as I said I was drinking bottled beer so all the bartender had to do was reach in a cooler, grab a beer, open it and serve it (how fucking easy is that?!) Also I couldn’t help thinking well if I drink fast then I drink a good bit before I leave and I tip putting money in the bartenders pocket. Let me take a second to explain the tip deal. This dive bar is also a private club were the patrons pay annul dues of a whole whopping $20 (sarcasm abounds) thusly they believe that they’re absolved from tipping ever. I’ve frequented this bar for 7 plus years and only saw 2 other people in all that time actually tip and they were newbies.

Fast forward a few hours during which time the people who had to work the next day leave followed by the elderly patrons and then by the heavy drinkers/alcoholics leaving only a handful of lingering local barflies. Now at this point in the evening I had switched from beer to Rum&Coke of which I drank 3 before ordering my final drink of the evening (which is a double Rum&Coke) and this led to an even more absurd interaction between the bartender and myself. I went ahead and ordered my double Rum&Coke. What happen next I don’t understand at all as not only do I tip but I wasn’t bitching about her drinks being weak nor in anyway talking shit to the bartender (i.e. giving her a hard time) With that said the bartender walks over to the bar, grabs a 8oz glass and proceeded to leisurely pour 7oz of rum into the glass and then stopped. She then turns her head to look at me and asked angrily “Is this OK?!” as if we were having some sort of altercation and now I’m stuck with a pissed off belligerent bartender. The bartender then tops of the glass with a slash of coke, walks it over to where I was sitting at the bar and again gets in my face like we’re involved in a non existent disagreement. This time she places the drink in front of me then leans over the bar and asks me snidely “Does THAT make you happy?” and I simply said “Yes” and that was that.