A man with asymmetrical features walks into a bar. The bartender is wiping down the counter and says nothing to him. It is not nearly closing time. The man with asymmetrical features is thirsty.
The cockroach at the bar is reading Dmitri Prechekovich’s new novel, Passeportes Obligatoire. It is enraptured. The man with asymmetrical features peers over its shoulder.
“Read this yet?” the cockroach inquires of the man with asymmetrical features in a formal, yet soft dialect.
“No,” the man responds, in a decidedly less proper diction.
“Well, I should say, sir,” continues the authoritative but gentle cockroach, “that it is quite a worthy read.” It shakes its head. “Now, I know what you’re going to say,” it continues, holding out two of its antennae in mock defense. “Everyone is reading it. It’s a sensation in all the coffee houses. The art galleries are just abuzz about it. I traditionally abhor the idea of getting wrapped up in all the popular hubbub as well. But my wife…” it sighs in a half laugh, ”finally forced me to give it a whirl, and here I am.” It clears its throat. “I can’t put it down.”
The man with asymmetrical features nods, and orders a bourbon. The cockroach takes this opportunity to attract the bartender’s attention as well, and orders an old fashioned.
The bartender has enormous breasts. And tattoos. And a nose ring. She smiles at the cockroach. The man with asymmetrical features sighs.
The room is quiet for a spare moment. The cockroach seems to sense the melancholy on the man’s asymmetrical face.
“Oh, don’t worry. I could never date her.”
“Why not?”
“Do you read philosophy?”
The man pauses for a minute, and takes a sip of his bourbon. The cockroach waits. The man half-shrugs.
“Well, if it is not a burden for me to share this with you, I have gathered over the years a collection of beliefs culled from the greatest minds on the planet—many of whom have advocated in favor of the small and weak, but also that they have a responsibility -- that they must continually work in tandem, without fail, without impatience of impurity, toward their ultimate goal. I have always believed that we – that is, counting myself among their ranks – should fight our oppressors with our intentions clear; worn across our faces as if battle paint, or military patches sewn to our exoskeletons, or what-have-you."
The asymmetrically featured man takes two sips from his bourbon.
“But what I have learned from Prechekovich,” it continues, “is that we must stare politely into the face of adversity, adopt a cordial tone, such as the one I am using now, and beam with seeming admiration in the direction of our enemies.”
The man nods. “Sounds… reasonable.”
“What she doesn’t realize,” the polite roach says, gesturing toward the bartender, gesticulating casually with its antennae as it speaks, “is that even as we speak, my minions are hard at work, undermining the stability of the floorboards beneath her.”
The man with asymmetrical features peers down. At the root of his stool, a small gathering of roaches scurry silently, prying away incognito with their antennae, hard at work on their various schemes. The man places his feet up in the crossbeam of the stole, and is very careful not to step on the cockroach’s brethren.
“Our race staked out this establishment long ago,” says the notably articulate cockroach. “For many years, we have been laying the groundwork to convert it into our base of operations – a haven, a mecca, if you will. Every roach born on the planet shall one day journey here.”
The man pauses. The cockroach waits. The man takes three sips from his bourbon.
“What we have discovered, right under this very tavern,” it continues, “is the holy nectar – the very fountain of youth, fabled through centuries all throughout arthropod lore. Never did we truly believe in its all-powerful existence. But now that we have discover it, it is simply a matter of time before this place is secured, and my species shall live forever!”
The room is quiet once again.
“So you see,” the roach says finally, rubbing its antennae together in a failing attempt to hide its enthusiasm, “I could never return the bartender’s affections, because we are mortal enemies.”
“Oh,” says the man.
The cockroach dips an antenna into its old fashioned. “Too bitter,” it remarks.
The man with asymmetrical features takes the last sip of his bourbon. He puts the glass down on the counter, and looks up to summon the bartender. She walks slowly over to them.
“Another bourbon?” she asks the man.
“Yes,” he replies. “Is it last call?”
“Just about.” She turns and starts to walk across the bar to pour him his bourbon.
“Excuse me,” he says, and she half turns toward him, rotating just her torso, accentuating her gigantic breasts, as well as the tattoo above her shapely posterior.
“I wondered,” the man says slowly, “If maybe you would let me buy you a drink when your shift ends.”
She pauses for a moment. She glances quickly at the cockroach, which appears to be lost in mischievous thought. She looks back at the man, and scans slowly over his asymmetrical face, studying his features. She takes a minute, and then furls her brow.
“I’m busy,” she says dismissively.
The man heaves a defeated sigh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
