Part 39
That Evening.
I find my seatbelt and snap it in place. Nepotism splats his heavy foot on the gas. I grip the doorhandle with both hands as we navigate a maze of police-free side streets, effortlessly almost colliding with any number of cars, bicyclists, telephone poles, trucks, dogs, joggers, bruthas hustling on street cornas, houses, and buses that stand in our way. When we finally get to the Spot, Nepotism needs to pry my fingers loose with a crowbar and throw a glass of water in my face to bring me back my senses.
We claim our usual rickety back table. No matter which side you choose, it’s tilted perfectly to splash beer in your lap when you topple your glass. Nepotism stops at the bar to get our pitcher. I briefly look over the the laminated menu folded on the table, deciding on my usual, a medium rare Meat Grab Spot Slab Burger with extra bacon and steak sauce, accompanying my dish with onion rings instead of french fries, which I will regret tomorrow morning. I wait until Nep gets to the table with a pitcher of Moosehead before I go up to place my order.
The bartender is the newest in an unending string of nubile young girls that the manager hires, gets addicted to heroin, fucks, then employs for two weeks before sending them out the door. The place been has been under investigation as a junk front for years. The problem is, the heroin is a front for something much darker.
“What can I get you, hon?” she asks, leaning across the bar to hear me over the ear-busting Velvet Underground on the juke. She adjusts her neck so I can see down her wife-beater, down between her bruised breasts to the base of her dirty bra.
“Gimmie a Meat Grab Spot Slab Burger,” I tell her with a dead serious straight face. “Medium rare.”
“Everything on that?”
“Extra bacon,” I order. Her fingers work at the air in a distanced, automatic way, as if she were writing the order. “Extra cheese. Extra steak sauce.”
“Okay,” she says, breaking our gaze and going off to the register.
“I could make you cum with a conversation.”
“What was that?” she asks, looking over at me sweetly, curly brown hair bouncing on her shoulders as her fingers elegantly punch my order.
“Nothing,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
She floats back and leans on the bar again, smiling seductively. “That’ll be ten-fifty.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I hate to be a bother, but can I have that with onion rings?” This is an easy way to get them for no extra money.
“Can I get a name?” she asks, grinning?
You don’t know me? “Dr. Filth?”
“Dr. Filth?” she gasps. “The Dr. Filth?”
“Yeah,” I say, a little irritated. “The Dr. Filth.”
“I’ll have this out in a few minutes.”
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