Let Me Tell You About My Night.

Allo everyone, thank you for once again coming along with me as I sweat nonsense from every pore, all for your viewing and reading pleasure.

I must admit that when I dragged my sorry, hungover carcas from my sleep chamber sometime around the ungodly hour of 5pm, I had no idea what an eerie and twisted situation I would find myself entangled.

The evening started out ordinarily enough, I showed up late for work, I ate my dinner/breakfast, and after my habitual, digestive cigarrette, settled into my nightly routine of ignoring my guests and deciphering my daily crossword puzzle. Things were well, and aside from my chronically drunk co-workers, there was not a body to be found in the joint, that is until the birthday party arrived.

Like pedeophiles at a junior high dance, they came grinding and sacheing through the front door, demanding booze and flesh. Hair askew and legs akimbo, they took their seats shouting for shooters and requesting topless service, to which of course I was happy to oblige.

Pictures taken and my clothing reasembled, I proceeded to serve the copious amounts of intoxicant the table had so elequently requested. For a crew as loaded and rowdy as they seemed at first, they were great tippers, so I felt it nessessary, for the sake of my wallet, to keep a close eye on their drinks and attitude toward the staff and overall environment.

The bartender Paul, and I had been drinking double shots of Wild Turkey since the beginning of our shift and it was time for my hourly bathroom check,(that of course should be read as: I needed to piss) so off I went. I must say that I was quite surprised to find two of the partiers standing by the sinks in a bathroom with the prestigeous honour of being rated "worst on Vancouver Island", having a chat. Normally this wouldn't even induce an eyelash bat, but as one of the people was female, I was uncharacteristicly taken aback.

Out they went, "sorry"'s flying hither and tither, to regroup with the rest of the revellers on the patio. Thinking this to be very odd behaviour, a closer eye on this crew of miscreants should be kept, I decided. After reassuring myself that my pocket knife and wrap of piano wire were both in the pockets I normally reserved for them, I went back out to the smoking pit to reassert control over the situation.

Finding everyone on their best behaviour again, I returned inside to assist Paul in an unmerciful beating of a crack head who had wandered in moments earlier, swinging his arms like a boxing monk, silent and savagly, and had proceeded to knock an entire rack of highball glasses into our ice well. After severing the tendons, along with the veins in his wrist with my piano wire, we then heaved his body into the dumpster behind our quaint little tavern.

Back inside I discovered that the two party goers I had encountered in the bathroom, were once again missing. Straight to the bathroom was my route, luckily this time it was empty. Next course of action was to check the women's bathroom. What I discovered there has been burned, scarred into my memory so badly that no amount of liquer or illicit drug can cleanse the terrible scene.

There, in the stall farthest from the door, stood two pairs of bare legs, clothes strewn about the room with no regard for ponds of urine, vomit, or liquid feces. "Good lord, man!" I shouted. "What the hell would inspire you to ream your girlfriend is a place as festering as this?"

"It's her birthday" he slurred, removing her from him and stagering out of the stall to reclaim his pants from their make shift hanger, between security bars on the window. Trying vainly to button his fly, he looked to me for help.

"Not a chance, Fuck-o! I've no time for this." Gripping his lady friend by the ankles I started towards the front door.

"What the fuck?" asked Paul.

"She's too fucked to walk, figured I'd put her with the crack head." I said.

What a happy birthday that would make for her we thought, waking next to a deceased, diseased waste of life. Perhaps she'd think twice before coming to this end of town again.
Seeing this, the rest of the party ran for the safety of the street outside, waving frantically for any passing car to stop and help.

The only one left to deal with was the boyfriend. Grabbing the "ugly stick" from behind the bar, Paul leapt over the taps and connected with the back of both the drunken simian's legs, and after romoving his nipples with my knife, we threw his kicking and screeching, flabby ass to the curb.

Sometime around 4am, we finished cleaning the blood and drool out of our clothing, and sat ourselves down for a well deserved drink.

Alright, so maybe this isn't an entirely true story, but it is based in fact. I did wake up at 5pm, I did take the drink order from a birthday party w/out my shirt, a crack head did break a glass into our ice well, and two of the people from the birthday party were indeed caught enjoying each other in the bathroom. And as far as the rateing of "worst on Van Isle", go to www.urinal.net/cambie_nanaimo/ and see for yourself.

That's it for now,

fishbait