WH vs Coma City
At a table with a crow and a fox. No one is paying for drinks but the bar tender keeps serving us and giving me odd looks. Nodding and winking, squinting at me and lolling his tongue. I don’t know what it means, but I put down another whiskey and swill some half warm beer.
It is foul.
The crow is on and on and on about his old lady, she won’t leave the nest, won’t go dancing, wants a new car, but where would she go? You know she threw the babies into the awful grey sky yesterday. They won’t be coming back.
The fox ignores this and keeps rolling his tiny bone dice. He wears snakeskin gloves, to cover the burns he got when trying to steal fire from man.
“Hey, you fuckers stole it from the gods, you know, all’s fair in fire and flesh.”
No fucking way. Nothing is fair.
The lights are getting to me – do they want ambience or not? Someone turn ’em down. You think I like knowing that the only people who will drink with me are a wife beating crow and a fox with no idea about privacy and possession? You gotta be kidding me.
Some night hag on the other side of the room sends us over a bottle of Shiraz, a note in place of the cork.
Be Dreaming Of Me…
Hell’s coming and now it’s Coma City.
Burning down the highway in a van full of outdated technology, hot on the tail of the latest breaking story of Heartbreak Boomtown.
They only let the beautiful people in.
Who says that the most fuckable folk are heartless?
She is there, that hag. Gussied up and shaking it, but I can see through the cosmetic surgery.
Get a new doctor, sweetheart, they look like bowling bowls, right down to the finger holes.
I’m the first one thrown out on my face and have to wait at the city limits, a border town, populated by, you got it, more foxes and crows, gambling and fighting and stealing and writing amazing memoirs.
I wish I could have stayed there.