“Sir you can’t come in here.”
“You shouldn’t tell me that.”
“Sir, you’re covered in blood.”
“My point exactly, for all you know I just whacked a busload of nuns for … telling me I can’t come in here. You really don’t want to do that to a guy covered in blood --- call him sir.”
“The people …” the bartender gestured broadly and let his arms fall limp to his side, the comfortable feeling of being alone suddenly less comfortable and more urgent.
“G and T”
The bartender relaxed his shoulders a centimeter or too. He extended his hand “Emiliano,” he said.
“Please to meetcha Emiliano, G and T.”
“Nice to meetcha too G and T.”
“Heh, Yeah. May I please have a Gin and To---“
“No. No Gin.”
“Ok, whisk---“
“No, no whiskey.”
“What do you recommend?”
“The beer is nice.”
“I’ll have a beer then and a cheeseburg ---“
“No, no cheeseburger.”
“Camel humps in white sauce and mashed yams.”
“I’ll check” He put his head in the kitchen.
“Spaghetti?”
“So no hump?”
“Spaghetti.”
“Excellent.”
“Would you care for a towel sir?”
“That must be some spaghetti.”
“For the blood.”
“It’s ok, it’s not mine.”
The title took longer than the entry. It is not inspired. I figured if someone did that prompt we could all give it a decent burial.
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