They let me out Monday. That’s not completely honest, actually. Via the computer in my brain, I searched for any nearby unsecured webcams and microphones. People leave those things open all the time. If you know what to look for just in your search browser, you can spy on people all around the world. That’s how I heard them mention that it was time to let me go.
I met the deputy sent to release me at the door to the holding cells. “How did you-?” he mumbled out as I stepped out past him.
“Good job. Glad to be out. I was starting to become institutionalized. Boss man, is it ok if I go to the bathroom? Oh, and here’s your pen back,” I dropped a very smelly pen with a few brown smudges on it into the pocket on the deputy’s shirt. After a good sniff, he bent over gagging. “Yes, the fragrance of the pen is certainly more powerful than the keys to the cells. If you don’t mind, I’ll just get my stuff and be on my way.”
The deputy that had me fill out all the paperwork wasn’t too amused by his colleague running for the bathroom. A few seconds after that we heard gunshots. Another deputy rushed to the door and opened it to find the one I made sick with his gun out of his holster, having destroyed a perfectly good pen. “Well that was a bit extreme,” I told the deputy as I signed for my freedom, “And here I thought he had the same condition I had, with the constipation so bad it just kind of shoots out of you. Of course, you can’t blame him. A lot of times, I like to make sure the toilet doesn’t clog up by just firing into it. It helps to keep it clean and unclogged. I like to think it has a pleasant deodorizing effect as well, but I often suffer from an anything to smell anything but burning brimstone for a half hour after using a bathroom.”
The deputy just rolled his eyes and pointed to the way out. “Just make sure to pay the fine and get out of town, Hynkel. We’ll know if you try to drive off without taking care of it. Oh, and you’ll have to pick up your truck from the impound too.”
I leaned over to make sure I got a good look at his badge. Deputy Land. That’ll be a handy name to remember later. Don’t worry, he’s not going on my shit list. That’s a list of people and organizations whose plumbing I am going to spontaneously reverse some day.
I stepped outside into the lobby to find a middle-aged bottle blonde in short shorts and lime green flip flops looking around. She stepped right by me and asked, “You just get out?”
I nodded, “Yes. It was horrible. It was only a few days, but it felt like a lifetime. Those showers will haunt me for the rest of my life. It was dog eat dog, hump or be humped in there. I’m just not sure if I can cope with the real world now.”
“What were you in for?”
“Huh. Is that anything like beating someone up? I was just lookin’ for someone to talk to about going with me to a bar in case my ex-husband gets drunk and starts looking to punch something again?”
I did my best to act shocked, “A fight? A nice, pacifistic person like me? I’ve done my time and been rehabilitated by the system, but the outside world just keeps trying to drag me back in. But, if there’s a chance I may get into a bar fight, as reluctant as I am to visit harm upon another person, I suppose I shall ever find it my duty to protect the less fortunate. Let’s go talk this over outside, as I expect I’ll need gas money if I’m to be your designated driver tonight.”
I couldn’t actually drive her. The town didn’t have a deputy on every corner, but I think they were watching me. There was one right in front of a bakery sipping on coffee. He didn’t think I was watching him watching me, but that’s because I’m subtle. Subtle like blowing up a giant futuristic spaceship over a city and then gassing another city. I’m very subtle at being subtle. Deceptively deceptive, you might say.
The lady that helped me out, Donna Walker, she treated me to a fancy little meal. The local Burrito Bell had apparently started making taco shells out of various brands of chips, so I tried it. One bite of those pork rind tacos was enough to make me consider converting to Judaism. Not Islam, however, because I’m going to need a few bottles of alcohol to forget about the taste. I spent so long in their bathroom from it that I was afraid a tree would grow out of the tank behind me and I’d be mistaken for a time-traveling Buddha. Glad I’m not Hindu, or who knows what would have happened to me when I turned that holy cow into some holy shit. It all left me quite cross and ready for some cheap wine, so I suppose it was the perfect meal to have before a bar fight.
The bar in question was the Lights Off Bar. Just your usual generic drinking establishment. Punch tester machine, claw machine, bar with stools, bathrooms with stools, a few tables, and a section with a bunch of pool tables. Neon beer signs and country music built the atmosphere, which was mostly cigarette smoke anyway. A large jukebox with an internet database of songs.
Depending on your outlook in life, the bar was either half full or half empty when I walked in with Ms. Walker on my arm. She purposefully guided me past her husband, Buddy Walker, who I asked to make sure wasn’t a Texas Ranger. Not much to him. Big, with a potbelly and a baseball cap on, he wore old greasy jeans and a black t-shirt. We stopped at the bar to order our drinks right there in view of Buddy while he was talking to some. Donna got a beer.
“What about you?” Asked the bar wench, or at least that’s what I like to call them. It’s not about being sexist either. Remember, sexism is wrong. Wench is just a fun word, like banana and gargle. Go ahead and make a sentence that uses those three words and I’ll bet it’s going to be one enjoyable sentence, especially if you shout it.
“I’ll have a Long Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against a Cold Hard Wall with a Kiss,” I said, loudly and while pulling Donna close. I played it up. I threw my hair like one of those Charlie’s Angels women. I rolled my Rs like Antonio Banderas. Also, to really make sure I was getting his attention, I kinda reached out behind Donna and groped the guy Buddy was talking to. The man jumped forward and spilled his beer on himself and Buddy. That worked perfectly.
“Hey, what the hell’s your problem!” Buddy said as he caught his friend then moved around him to me. I picked Donna up and sat her on the bar before moving close. He just looked at me, our heads a little too close together. I guess I could have said something, but that would have filled that odd silence as two men stood tense and very close to one another. “What is going on here?” he asked after several awkward seconds.
“I don’t know, what do you want to happen here, big boy?” I asked with just a hint of refreshing fruit flavor to my voice. This served two purposes. The most immediate was that he backed way away from me. After a half second of thinking, he raised his hand up like he was going to hit me.
Close enough for me. I reached up, grabbed his oddly-immaculate ears, and yanked his head to my left and away from the bar with a high-pitched scream. The second purpose is that when I punched him, I now get to say that the fruitiness was all part of my Hawaiian punch. “Aloha, amigo,” I told him as he stumbled back and hit a chair, falling over. One of his friends helped him up while the other, the guy whose drink I spilled, tried to hit me with the glass. I grabbed his wrist, spun him around, dipped him past me, then brought him up and whirled him around again while directing him towards his friends. “Olé!” I shouted.
All three of these guys came at me this time, so I leaned against the bar, rolled over it, and landed on the other side. I looked around to see what weapons were at hand. Glasses, beer, some liquor bottles on the back shelf, straws, a small ice bucket, a shotgun. I just had to see what I could do. I grabbed a handful of ice and threw it at Buddy’s clean friend. He instinctively tried to cover his eyes. Buddy’s friend with the spill, hereafter called Party B of Clause 9, Line 6, Paragraph 8 of the Subsection on Buddy’s spilled friend, got a straw to the eye. That left Buddy, who grabbed my head and pulled me forward. I grabbed his hands and pulled him back forward so that he was resting on the bar off the ground. I spread his hands so they were well away from us and drove my knee into his nose. Oh snap.
The fight was pretty much out of him at that point, so I pushed him back so that his head rested on the bar. This gave me an idea on how to rub it in just a little more. I grabbed a beer, stuck it in Buddy’s mouth and got it set between his teeth, pushed down hard on his head, and opened it up. With a wink towards Donna I raised the beer and mutilated the Budweiser marketing line, “This Buddy’s for you, Donna.”
Whatever brand it was tasted like crap. I spat it with a cough. That part was unintentional. Sorry Buddy and Buddy’s buddies.
Of course, I did go back to jail for the night. Hey, I wasn’t going to stay with whats-her-name. She’s not my type. Besides, I got to sit a short distance from Buddy and Buddy’s buddies and keep them up all night with random insightful observations about the nature of insurance law. They let me go today since enough people confirmed that I at least looked to be defending myself. I don’t get the feeling that Buddy had too many buddies.
Donna had the money for my license fine as I left though. Good on her. If she hadn’t had it, she’d be in worse shape than Buddy. I offered to give him a real cheap root canal while we were in the cells, but he declined for some odd reason before I even mentioned I’d have to work with a pen I smuggled in.
And can you believe it? Donna had more questions for me when I got out this time. Mainly she just wanted to know, “Why did you yell that when they dragged you into the car?”
“You yelled ‘The wench didn’t even let me banana my gargle!’ like an idiot.”
Hehehe. That was a fun sentence to yell.