The police officer who worked the day shift guarding me spent the majority of his time trying to fuck the LPN that was on duty at the same time. When she wasn't around he never spoke a word to me. Usually he just parked his fat ass in a chair while reading issues of Muscle & Fitness, Flex, Soldier Of Fortune, and Clits and Tits. When he wasn't doing that he was laughing like a retard at some moronic daytime game show. "This local cop gig is just small time shit for me. Just a resume builder. Soon as I get enough time in I'm going to put my application in for the FBI. With my background, Army, college, and a couple of years here on the force. Shit, I'm a shoo-in for the Feds." "Really. Isn't that dangerous work? Bank robbers and all that kind of stuff." The young nurse sounded starry eyed with wonder and awe. "I live for danger. I even tried to join the Green Berets when I was in the Army but they turned me down. The pussy bastards. Said I was too radical for them."
"Sounds like you've had a real exciting life.
First the Army, then being a policeman. I
sometimes wish I could do something like that.
Things can get pretty dull around here. This about
the most excitement we've had here in years."
I could hear the crinkle of leather as he
hitched his gun belt up. "That's why I'm here. This
guy is one bad dude. They put me on the tough
cases. This prick gives you any crap you just let me
know. I don't have time for scum like this. I'll kick
his ass around the room if he gives you any grief."
"Oh, he hasn't given me any trouble. Hasn't
spoken a word and he is handcuffed to the bed."
I was down on the floor of the Aragon Bar.
That's not a floor you normally want to be laying
on. I don't think the goddamn thing had been swept
much less mopped in the last decade. Sticky spilled
beer, cigarette butts, piss, spunk, those nasty frozen
Margaritas that come out of machine, chewing
tobacco, and God knows what else were all part of
the sights and smells of my current location.
Unpleasant to say the least.
"Don't you move a muscle, motherfucker!"
That was the bartender talking and the asshole who
had shot me with a tiny chrome .25 automatic. To
add insult to injury, the dirty son of a bitch was a
midget. I had been shot by a midget! Quite a life I
was living.
"Shit! Jesus Christ! Goddamn! This fucking
hurts! You little sawed off bastard!" I was curled up
in the fetal position clutching my wound. The shot,
almost point blank, had caught me high on the
shoulder. Luckily for me the .25 snub-nose
automatic is one of those pistols that are designed to
be jammed directly into the body before emptying
the clip, a close range weapon. Probably why it's
called a Saturday night special. Since the bartender
had fired over the bar at me, a distance of about
three feet, and had been aiming at my heart, he had
missed by about five inches.
"Cletus! Cletus! Are you OK? Talk to me!
Oh, shit!" The bartender was now leaning over
Cletus la Favor who was lying face down on the
floor, his head in a rapidly increasing pool of blood.
He was not moving. Sirens could be heard off in the
distance.
la Favor hadn't noticed me when I walked
into the bar and sat down in a booth across from the
bar and close to the stage where a silicone
enhanced, g-stringed, peroxide blonde who looked
to be about fifty, bumped and grinded all over the
stage. She was dangerously skinny with huge tits
that sported pierced nipples. Obviously she had to
be on some sort of speed or crystal meth for as
active as she was, bounding all around on the stage
like she was playing Las Vegas. As she pranced
around I realized in astonishment that she wasn't as
old as she appeared to be since I now vaguely
recognized her as a member of my graduating class
and who had once been a member of the
cheerleading squad.
Besides the stripping ex-cheerleader, la
Favor, the midget bartender, and myself, there were
only two other patrons in the bar. A drunk Indian
who was face down in his booth and a old geezer
who appeared to be jerking-off under the table as he
gazed lovingly at the stripper who's name I now
remembered for some strange reason. Janet Eason.
Her stage name was Juggy Jillian.
"What are you drinking?" A mean eyed
waitress sporting a platinum colored mohawk had
appeared out of nowhere and was now standing
alongside my table.
She was wearing a white
muscle shirt and her arms and shoulders were
totally covered with tattoos and she too was
sporting a huge pair of enhanced hooters.
"Beer. Whatever you have on tap." She gave
me a odd look as she went to get my brew.
That bitch should looks familiar, I had
thought. Holy shit! Was that? It was Angel! I
thought she was dead for fucking sure after la Favor
had killed Mike and dragged her ass off in his car.
All this time I had been too worried about saving
my own ass much less worry about what the hell
happened to her. Did she recognize me? I don't
think so.