Sometimes is best to leave an event alone, allow the dust to settle, before gloating about ruffled feathers and sandy vaginas left in its wake. As the proprietor of ‘The Evil Bar’ in our tiny town, and a person who may or may not have been involved with the genesis of such a stunt, I believe the smoke has cleared enough to let the world know of such hijinks. This thought is based on the equation: Comedy = tragedy + time. Though there was no tragedy involved, there may have been numerous pairs of soiled underwear and/or attacked hearts, unless you take into consideration those without a sense of humor, their skipped heart beats and dirty drawers could be construed tragic.
On July 19th, 2012 at approximately eleven PM Mountain Daylight Time, roughly an hour before Aurora, Colorado entered the cultural lexicon, a couple of cohorts had a nasty idea for a practical joke. Of course, I couldn’t resist. Those of you who follow this blog know about the ‘old west gunfights,’ we hold during Railroad Days, our little town’s yearly celebration. The night in question, we were walking through the scenarios for the following Saturday.
“Hey,” Cohort #1 said, “I have an idea.”
I should have known it was a bad deal.
Cohort #’s 2 and 3 said the idea rocked. “Let’s do it.”
I wasn’t at the ‘other bar’ to witness the event. But, I’ve heard the story enough, it goes like this:
Cohort #3 walked into the other bar and said there was a bunch of drama up at ‘The Evil Bar.’ Cohorts 1 and 2 were arguing about money that 2 owed 1. Being that both 1 worked for 2 and as someone said later, 2 owed a few people money, made the premise believable. A few minutes later 1 and 2 appeared in front of the other bar in the midst of a heated argument.
Number 2 is a loveable giant. Everybody in town adores him and he can possibly be the kindest person alive. Not to mention he can cook up a storm. So imagine the scene when 1 called out 2 in front of a small crowd of people who have drank with 2 since Camden was a prairie. Then he has the audacity to pull out a replica revolver and fires a shot into 2’s chest. Number 2 did his part and fell back against the outside wall. People scattered, the manager came unglued and the bartender, who happened to be walking by, allegedly peed her pants.
Meanwhile, those of us left behind at the ‘Evil Bar,’ were listening for two shots. Like Number 1 demonstrated before leaving, holding the revolver gangsta style while saying: “Pop, Pop.”
We giggled like kids hearing the first shot, imagining the mayhem. “Hey,” someone asked. “Where’s the second shot?”
The simple answer, things never go as planned. After the initial shock and awe, Number 2 had to jump up and proclaim “It’s just a joke!” The manager, a mellow 50 something gal, instantly turned into a grizzly bear and allegedly read the riot act in numerous languages, leaving the three Cohorts pleading their case why they shouldn’t be eighty-sixed.
“What’s going on?” I asked a regular who had tagged along to witness.
“Oh man, it didn’t go good.”
“What happened? Where was the second shot?” I asked, panicked. I imagined 1 getting the tar beat out of him.
“Nothing that bad,” the witness said. “1 and 2 are buying rounds to make it good.”
It would be an hour before the three amigos returned. “So?” I asked.
“They called us freaks and told us to go back and drink with the rest of the freaks,” Number 1 reported. The comment confirmed my suspicion that freaks of a feather really do drink together.