“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re asking me?”
They stared at the sign on the locked door of the bar.
“Two men enter, one man leaves.” The larger of the two men scratched his head. “Isn’t that from some movie?”
“Yeah,” said the other one, “Fight club, maybe.”
“No, I think... One of those post-apocalypse things maybe...”
“Whatever, where we going to drink if Doulan’s is closed?”
The bigger man looked sideways at his companion. “There’s more to live than drink,” he said. “Ain’t you the slightest bit curious about what’s going on with our bar?”
“Nah.” The smaller man looked up and down the street. “Probably some kinda... I don’t know, tranny fight club.”
“What, like... if you lose, you get your dick cut off?”
“Or if you win, maybe. Tranny fight club, remember.”
“That’s the... you know tranny’s a, a hate term, yeah? Like spic or whatever. You ain’t supposed to say it.”
“What the fuck ever, do you see any trannies here? Listen, let’s go over to Spankers, I got some dollars I want to put in some g-strings.”
The big man looked back at the sign, then sighed. “Yeah, all right.” The two men turned and walked down the empty street, hands in pockets.
Behind them, the door cracked just a bit; two pairs of eyes peered out.
“I told you, nobody reads the stupid twitter feed.” The smaller of the two men peering out of the bar pursed his lips.
The bigger man sighed. “Yeah, OK,” he said. “It has a bunch of followers, I thought it’d be cool...”
“I’m telling you, we ain’t got that kind of patronage,” the smaller man said.
They closed the door.
“Tranny fight club was a good fucking idea.” The smaller man walked back behind the bar.
The bouncer sighed heavily. “It’s a terrible idea,” he said. “First of all, like the guy said, you can’t say ‘tranny.’ And second of all, the only transsexual that ever comes in this bar is Frank, and he would rather someone donated a dick.”
“What, Frank used to be a chick?”
“I... what do you do here all night, anyway? You remember Francine that used to come in all the time on Friday and Saturday nights?”
“Big Francine? The welder, from Ohio?”
“Yeah, Big Francine.”
“Wait, you’re telling me...”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“Never mind. What do you want to do with these?” The bouncer grabbed one of the thick sets of rubber bands that hung from the improbably high ceiling.
“They were gonna get somebody killed anyway, just take ‘em down and open the door.”
There were three loud knocks at the door. The bouncer looked up at the bartender, surprised.
“Open it, dumbass.”
The bouncer slid the little eye-height slit on the door open and looked out. “Yeah?”
There was a small crowd of young people out there. They were all wearing skinny jeans and asymmetrical haircuts.
“Is this Thunderdome?” The kid that spoke had a stupid little mustache and a whiny voice.
The bouncer was seized by a sudden vision of a post-apocalyptic future.
“No,” he said, “This is tranny fight club.”
He slammed the eye slit.
No comments:
Post a Comment