Thumping, throbbing, pulsing… a sinuous dolphinoid stroke through crisscrossing waves of briny, grinding flesh, arrive at destination: a ramshackle tropic-themed auxiliary bar. I wave, regally, in the vicinity of the bartendress, to order a stiff one. To my left, propped lordotically on a stool, a slim blonde in slimmer dress squeezes a lime wedge into her love potion. She thinks (incorrectly) a stray sour squirt hit me; I feign injury.
Blondie: “Oh, I’m sorry about that!”
Left hand up to left eye, I execute a grimace with great gusto. “Aagh! My eye! It burns.”
She gawks for a beat, I spread two fingers slowly apart, revealing the abstractly-afflicted eye, peering at her with my miraculously and expediently cured vision through the finger gap, smiling with same orb a reprieve from a personal injury lawsuit. I leave the scene, pressed in equal measure by physiological necessity and the advantages of calculated…
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