“Lew?” You tie your sweaty hair in a ponytail. “Can’t we put on the a/c?”
“No!” he says. “Wait for the crowd.”
Crowd, my ass, you think.
The ceiling fans do shit. With both doors open, Scratch’s has scared its drunks away. You picture Snake cracking cold ones in his kids’ pool, skanky Nina sucking cocks in air-conditioned cars. Spit and Short Mike . . . You’ve got no clue where they are. Where do bikers go in the heat?
Anything beats this. Hours with no customers. You’re working for nothing.
Lew could’ve stayed home, but “That bitch burns my ass up,” he said. He hates his wife, and both his kids.
“Whatta life,” he mutters. “No jobs, live at home, and get fucked up every day.”
Sounds good to me, you think. If he only knew you fucked both his sons.
In Scratch’s driveway, an ancient grill is set up. “Should I put the dogs on?” he asks.
You smirk. “Wait for the crowd.”
Lew’s own hair is in a mini ponytail, his T-shirt stuck to his chest and gut. He drags himself onto a stool across from you.
Female voices out front say there’s hope. But nobody comes in.
“C’mon,” Lew says, under his breath. “Make up your fuckin’ mind.”
The voices get louder, like chicks are arguing. You get a bad feeling.
“Never mind,” Lew says. “Keep it outside.”
Instead, both come in not speaking.
“What the f —” Lew says.
You just stare. It’s the most mismatched couple, ever. And they are a couple, these chicks: one as short as a little girl, the other bigger and fatter than Lew.
Matching bathing suits, they have on, black with tropical flowers. The tiny chick’s might be a kid’s size, but the beast’s would fit a Sumo wrestler. And with a matching visor, yet. Beneath it is stiff platinum hair you bet she hates to get wet.
The beast glares as the tiny chick climbs onto the stool next to Lew’s.
“Gonna suck his cock next?” she hisses.
The tiny chick ignores her. Out of a pink, Barbie-type purse, she pulls a five and tosses it on the bar. “Sex-on-the-Beach.”
Figures, you think. You made like one in your life. Scratch’s is a beer-and-shot place. Unless skanky Nina has a big “date.”
“What about me?” the beast whines. “Don’t I get one?”
“I can’t afford you,” the tiny chick says. “Bitch.”
Lew snickers. As you reach for the schnapps, you think of those dolls in movies that kill people. That’s the voice: pitchy, and mean. The big one looks scary, but the little one really is.
“What’sa matter?” Lew asks you, when you check the bartending guide. “Forget how to make it? Huh? Forget something?”
“Just the vodka,” the tiny chick says.
“I love you,” the beast says, starting to cry. “But you don’t care about me.”
“Shut up,” the tiny chick says. “A little more,” she tells you, about the vodka.
“That’s a double,” Lew says. He’s not laughing now. “It’s a ten buck-drink.”
You can taste trouble, now.
The beast pouts. “Won’t even buy me one. Anything I got, I give her. Out of sheer love. Left my fucking husband for her.”
Somebody married her? you bet Lew’s thinking.
“Will you shut up?” the tiny chick says.
When you serve her the double Sex-on-the-Beach, she says, “You wanna drink?” The beast nods.
She throws it in her face.
“Wahhh!” the beast sobs. She takes sissy punches at the tiny chick, who blocks them.
Groaning, Lew gets up, no doubt to find the mop. “You still gotta pay for that!” he says.
“Yeah?” the tiny chick says, groping in her purse. “How ‘bout with this?”
A gun. So tiny, you bet it’s a toy. Still, your guts feel like jello.
“It’s OK,” you say, smiling. “It’s so hot in here.” You’re sweating from more than that, now. “I’ll make you a fresh drink. On the house.”
Eyes bulging, Lew edges behind the bar. You glance down, knowing what’s back there.
“Bang, bang,” the beast says, childishly. “Bang, bang.” She wipes her face with a cocktail napkin.
“Open the register,” the tiny chick says. “Gimme all the money.”
“What?” Lew says, inching along the bar. “It’s empty. You’re the first customer I got!”
“Don’t gimme that.” Step by step, she follows him, from her side of the bar.
“All that money,” the beast says, pouting. “And you know how much I’ll get? Jack shit!”
“There is no money,” you lie, getting out of Lew’s way.
The beast’s eyes narrow. “Won’t even buy me a drink.”
The tiny chick is right under the whirring ceiling fan. The beast realizes this the same time you do.
“Hey!” The gun goes flying as the beast swoops her up in the air.
It clunks to the floor. Now Lew’s got his: a Desert Eagle .44.
With the other kicking and fighting her, the beast scrambles onto the nearest stool, then onto the bar itself. She’s determined to reach the fan above.
Lew aims, but you’re not sure for who. “Drop her,” he says, like a TV cop.
She doesn’t. You almost puke as she throws the chick up into the fan.
You wait to be sprayed with blood. Instead, the blade smacks her in the head. She falls onto the beast, as the .44 tears up the ceiling.
“Aw, fuck!” You covered your head, but the shit’s all over the place.
By the time cops come, those two bitches have made up. Still sobbing, the beast holds her girlfriend close, rubbing her sore head. “I’m . . . sorry,” the beast says. Absently, the tiny chick picks debris off herself.
Lew and his fucking gun. With this mess, Scratch’s will be closed for weeks.
“It was real, all right.” Looking impressed, one cop shows us the tiny gun.
The other cop, female but looking like Sly Stallone, enjoys cuffing the bitches.
“ ‘Barbie Junior’ and ‘Barbie Senior,’” she says. “Yer ‘Dreamhouse’ is waiting.”
You glare at Lew. I’ll bet, you think.
With a/c blasting.