Reports from the Dead Museum: High Speed Pursuits

High Speed Pursuits

So, I asked her for a couple of dollars to buy a drink and send me down the river. Bus fare? It was raining, a little cold, and there was that damp chill in the air that makes your teeth chatter. I sat down at the bar and asked for the Greek stuff. The bartender knew what I was talking about. He had given me a drink of Ouzo the week before. He had shaken it up with ice until it was chilled in the frozen granule suspension, then poured it into four glasses. We toasted then, to what, I'm not sure, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. So we drank.
That was then. Now I asked for it, prepped the same way, but with a water chaser. Pulling forth the bills she gave me, I paid up. It went down smooth from the small snifter; I downed it within moments.
Now I turned, surveying the scene. The Mexican dance had begun. This was a rare treat; the bartender would don a huge sombrero and commence running, jumping and sliding up and down the surface of the bar, stopping only to pour tequila down the eager throats of the waiting beaks. I clicked my own beak in anticipation and leaned in closer towards the rail. Behind me, surrounding me, video screens flashed scenes of Hong Kong machine gun flicks. Bullets sprayed and ketchup spurted forth in geysers that would put Yellowstone to shame. We spared no tomato expense. The
phosphorescent explosions grew more tumultuous. I focused in on the bar railing in front of me, trying to regain my perspective. The wood was scarred and weatherbeaten. It might have been painted once back in the days of McCarthyism. Now it had been eaten down between the grain and carved by passing Alabama yahoos, in town on their spring break, and feeling a bit more booze than they could handle. I looked for a handle to grab on to.