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Waxwork

this guy is a real piece of work. or something else, but I try to not use that kind of language!

waxwork


I love Murphy's Bar. It's what a bar should be. Stuck in the far corner of a decrepit strip mall, Murphy's offers no illusions of happy times with friends or especially of 'hooking up' with the woman of your dreams for the night. Why do bars and clubs persist in this myth that they're there to provide you with a 'good time' where you will meet other 'happy people'. Murphy's is the polar opposite. Murphy's knows that alcohol is a depressant for depressed people. (Basically, Murphy's knows that alcohol is for everybody unlucky enough to not be a child anymore). Benjamin Franklin said that 'Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.' Just goes to show an exceptionally wise man can be an abject moron at times. No. It proves that God knows what a crapcan he has put us in and He had to provide something with which we might possibly forget what a crapcan we're in, if only temporarily. A bar serves one purpose: to drink and get drunk (I guess you could call that two purposes, but I think of it as one). Anything else is merely an excuse to jack up the drink prices.

Despite the freezing weather and patches of ice on the ground, I decided to walk to Murphy's that day. Small icicles were forming on the rotten eaves of my small house on Desdemona Lane. In Dallas, where icicles are a rare sight in the first place, said icicles rarely get any bigger than 'small'.


The wind was stronger than when I had returned home from work.

"Work." If you call sitting in your vehicle for eight hours in the middle of nowhere making sure nobody steals excavating equipment work. So you blame me for taking a few swigs of Jack while I sit eroding in my rusting Neon; you know, the car without a functional heater?

I pulled my security guard jacket tighter and pulled my security guard cap down lower on my forehead and trudged through the light layer of snow avoiding as best I could the many and ever widening cracks in the sidewalk.

As I approached the bar, I saw the decrepit, lopsided wooden sign: MURPHY'S BAR, but only MUR BA was actually lit up in blue neon. There used to be & GRILL next to the sign, but someone had covered up that part with black permanent marker and duct tape.

Under one of the few functioning lights in the parking lot sat the rusty yellow Bug. Ex. Cellent. She was in there. A row of troll dolls grinned at me idiotically from the rear window.

I slowly opened the unpainted wooden door with multiple vertical cracks and a piece of notebook paper pinned to it with the words PRIVATE CLUB written in blue ballpoint upon it. The heavenly aroma of various brands of cigarette smoke wafted into my nostrils. The 'private club' designation allowed them to permit smokers to smoke in the establishment, a privilege for which the club paid two hundred dollars per year.

I stepped onto the creaky, cracked, dull, dusty wooden floor and quickly strolled past the useless pool tables with the ripped green velvet and the pool cues without tips. Then I stepped into what I guessed was supposed to be a dance floor, but I had never seen anyone dance. As usual, a slow, sad country song emanated from the ancient jukebox. The owner believed playing this kind of music kept the 'minorities' out (although, in this neighborhood, white was the clear minority), but, as usual, he was wrong. The picnic table on the right side of me held a party of six Mexicans and the only other picnic table hosted four black guys. Both groups were drinking light beer from a pitcher in Dixie cups.

Finally, I made it to the bar. Tanya, the bartender, saw me and asked me if I wanted the usual. I nodded yes. Beer. Not light, though. I ain't no lightweight.
I pulled out the barstool. Someone had ripped the top of it with a knife and the stuffing was coming out. Whatever. I sat on it, and looked at Fiona on my right. Or was it Felicity? Who cared, really? Once you get beyond the point of knowing someone's name, how often do you really use it anyway?

The main thing I liked about her is that she always came alone. She didn't have that horrid habit most females have of bringing a 'friend' everywhere they go. Everyone knows women don't have friends. They have competition. As usual, she looked as if she had been crying. A half empty whiskey sour sat in front of her. I indicated to Tanya to get her another one.

I knew she liked corny jokes, so I told her the stupidest one I could think of, which was this: Why was the dolphin depressed? Because he couldn't find his porpoise in life.

Fiona (I guess) laughed a sad little laugh. "You always know how to make me laugh," she muttered, barely audible. I encouraged her to finish her drink, as she had another waiting for her. She did so.

I got her talking about why she was sad all the time, as if I cared. Then I told her how pretty she was, which she wasn't. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't ugly; she just wasn't what you might call a 'prize'. I told her how pretty her lips were...if she wore a different shade of lipstick. Then I told her legs were quite shapely...but why did she wear those capri pants that made her hips look huge? You get the idea. Or not. What do I care?

As she finished her fifth drink, I talked about her feet. She reached under the bar and removed them. I mentioned her legs again, and she quickly took those off. While her hands were pretty, why did she wear that weird color nail polish? Off came her arms.

Tanya was busy with the Mexicans, so I left the money for my tab on the bar, leaving a generous dollar tip. I scooped up Fiona and headed outside, looking back once to ensure I had not forgotten anything.

It was actually snowing now. Just flurries, but I was in no condition to walk. I opened the presumptive Fiona's purse and found her car keys. I dumped Fiona into the passenger seat. I adjusted the driver's side seat and mirrors then started the car.
I drove her the short distance to my house. I gathered Fiona into my arms and dropped her onto my twin bed. I remembered I had left the passenger door open and the dome light was on, but so what? What's the worst that could happen? Someone else's car would get stolen. The battery might die. Or something good could happen, like a homeless guy would have shelter for the night. In any case, it didn't affect me.

I rearranged Fiona as best I could and got (what I supposed was defensible in a court of law if it came to that) consent.

After, I pushed her over and slept with her. It had been a long time since I had slept with a warm body. It was kind of irritating, as I couldn't toss and turn as much as I usually do.

The alarm went off at eleven. My shift started at noon. I got out of bed, showered and got into my uniform. Before I left I looked at Fiona.

She was in more pieces than before. Well, I ain't no king and I ain't go no horses nor any men. She would just have to put herself back together again.
And if she didn't?

I don't suppose it'll hurt the world none to have yet another broken person in it.


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