Episode 19 Intrepidgate

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Occasionally, a giant sucking sound goes bump in the night. This time it wasn’t the sound of jobs crossing the Rio Grande on behalf of NAFTA. This act was much more parochial, confined to the sanctity of our small town… and now the Barroom Chronicles. The act in question wasn’t a victimless crime, so sayeth a select few in this burg; a vast majority disagrees. The dissenting sect shares a laugh, and gesticulates about overindulgence – of one kind or the other.

(Cue the movie trailer guy)  “In a world where cars are white, sidewalks are swept, and people celebrate the end of another work week, someone… something lurks in the shadows of the ‘other’ bar. Unsuspecting folks settle into a hand of poker, the jukebox crones as the bartender and a male customer flirt with one another. The night marches towards midnight.

After a while the party moves up the street to the home of these chronicles. Left behind are the flirtatious lot. Like every night, closing time rears its head and people collect themselves and their significant other. All except one, our damsel in distress, for the sake of this story, we shall call her Molly.  It seems Molly lost track of her other half, Peter. Into the night our damsel went in search of Peter.

Under the glow of tungsten streetlights parked cars appeared the same. Maybe it was a misty night where drops of moisture clung to everything worth holding onto. In one particular car, another weather phenomenon, fog, painted the inside of windows. Our poor Molly stopped next to the self-contained fog bank. She lowered her head, cupped her hands about her eyes and peered inside.

Paul puffing peter.
Paul puffing peter.

Oh, the horror! The Humanity!

Inside, the bartender, Paul, busied himself puffing on Peter’s package like Phoenician phalanxes purposely perusing a peck of pickles.

One can imagine what our poor heroine felt. Soon everybody knew what she felt. Her feelings echoed up and down an otherwise quiet street. As we all know, what happens on the streets after dark circulates into barrooms after first light.

A ditty about Paul. You see, since childhood Paul preferred popsicles, and because of his openness Paul is accepted for his popsicle loving way, even when Paul robs a peter to pay Paul, if you know what I mean. A refreshing attitude

A reasonable facsimile.
A reasonable facsimile.

for a small mountain town. If this was Wyoming, one would expect he might have been drug behind a pickup truck or tied to a fence post. You see, in our town Paul is legend – but that may have more to do with him dressing in drag, putting penis doobbaly- bops on his head and singing the karaoke version of “It’s Raining Men” like Paul Lynde guest- staring on My Favorite Martian.

Our bar is much like a locker room, especially on any given Sunday during football season. So you can imagine the conversation when word go out about the previous night’s escapades. To his credit, Paul, accompanied by his entourage of fag-hags and armed with a purse over his shoulder, swayed into the hornet’s nest of testosterone and smack-talk.

“My, my,” I chirped from my perch behind the bar. “If it ain’t the man of the hour! So are the stories true?”

Putting a pinky to his cheek, Paul answered: “I’ve been a naughty boy.”

“How naughty?”

“Very naughty.”

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

“I don’t blow and tell you heathen.”

And so went the conversation, the entire time denying the masses just who’s peter was being puffed. We were so thwarted of the puffees identity, we resigned ourselves to the idea that the identity would only be revealed when the next house in town went up for sale.

And so, the story would have died, albeit a week or two later when our small, scandal seeking minds would have grown bored and wandered to the next subject. But…

Poor Molly, she just couldn’t help herself, especially the day she walked into the bar with a stager in her step and fire in her eyes. “I need to talk to you,” she began. She proceeded to read me the riot act over gossip regarding the giant sucking sound and what about the said subject was fit for public consumption. “You are responsible for what your patrons are saying,” she pontificated.

Wrong thing to say to a bar owner who is already on the hook for other adult’s actions when they consume certain amounts of adult beverages. To be honest, I was proud of myself with the kid gloves I used addressing the subject. But our heroine didn’t leave well enough alone and implied legal complications because of an ongoing criminal investigation over fellatio rape. That’s right, Peter was allegedly going to press charges on Paul for pecking his pickle. Oh the drama. I could imagine the laughs echoing in the cop-shop, because after-all, I do remember their reaction during the cock-caper. Just when the flames were about to die, poor Molly doused the embers with gasoline.

Immediately after our heroine left the building, I set about constructing the “other bar’s” Blow Job kit. I took a plastic baggy, inserted a stuffed fury mouse, (more on mice and rats, specifically my fear of them, and the terror others reign upon me in their name, in upcoming blogs) drowned it in sugar – to simulate cocaine, and stapled it to the ceiling. A poster advertising its prowess as a sexual aid proudly lives next to it and welcomes any and all guests. I know I’m mixing metaphors, but hey, what was good for the eighties works in the twenty-first century. Anyway, a mixed-metaphor is a perfect shrine to honor the blow job heard around town. The furor eventually will die, but the legend lives.

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