The Bartender

Coked out, arrogant and sweaty.  These last two adjectives resulted from the rapid and relentless ingestion of the first noun. Rat-faced, not in the duplicitous or untrustworthy way, but in the literal way, he had a rat's face. You look so great side-stepping that other blur that some lazy-eyed drunk might call "fit", in truth she was caked in viscous make-up that was bubbling on her cheeks and forehead, probably from the livid cocaine blood rushing through her. It wasnt rushing in a passionate way, like Goethe's blood would when surveying a sublime, pastoral Italian scene, it was rushing in a frenzied way, like the blood was just running from her lack-luster heart, trying to escape through the pores in her face. Imagine them trying to copulate: after he spends 15 minutes removing his ankle-tight jeans he desperately tries to coax his shriveled penis to life, but his entire body is spent from running back and forth between the bar and the kitchen, where he could shove some diluted baking powder up his nostrils in a stainless steel enclave. Basically, the night is one big romantic scene that culminates with him chop-sticking his dick above the face-cauldron in his basement flat. (Chop-sticking is a maneuver that intoxicated men perform on their penis' in order to get erect. It's instinctual, because all the wastoids are guilty of doing it. How else does one get the blood to stay in their belabored penis? Answer: you chopstick the base and hope her eyes are diverted while its happening.) Well, alcohol is a depressant anyway, so I'm glad I couldn't use my card for "just a fiver". Idiots that regurgitate the back-room lectures their avaricious employers drill are always greasy-haired dick-babies in 30 dollar tank tops.