"Knowing Harry, he's booked Aer Lingus with that redhead," Chamika batted her eyelashes at EE.
"I don't care Toots," EE answered, pouring her "Fire God" Margarita. Chamika made an extravagant show of picking up the Margarita, sipping it and savoring its mind-numbing goodness.
"Roughage will cure that disposition barkeep." She sauntered away on legs so long that even Wilt the Stilt would have to look up to see her whoopee cakes jiggle. Every male eye in the joint followed her. So engrossed, I hiked my buttocks onto a stool, threw a Jackson on the bar and let my eyes frolic in Chamika's buns of heavenly bliss. The bespectacled bartender snapped his fingers in my face, disturbing my reverie.
"Hospital in Sao Paulo. An ass kicked his ass and like broke his sacro-coccygeal symphysis when he played badass with soccer hooligans at Morumbi Stadium. I'm filling in, permanent-like."
I shrugged and circled a finger in one big whoop. Only the barkeep's muttonchops moved. I rested my elbows on the bar, my chin in my hands. "Unlucky ducky. First vacation in 25 years and he ends up breaking his ass. Pour me a draft and like lend me an ear, barkeep. I got a shitload of ugly-like merde dealing with the public today and I need to unburden my soul." He eyeballed me and the tap, then my Jackson, then the cash register, and then back to me. He snapped up my Jackson, filled my glass with draft and drank, smacking his lips afterward.
"You can drink your beer direct-like in about 30 minutes. I'm not your effing sigmoid colon Freud for free. Soul unburdening has a price." He fingered his zipper.
That night I found a new watering hole and new bartender. Only cost me a Jackson.