The Real McCoy
by James Neenan
The neon bar signs beckon to me like a needle to a junkie. What day is it? Friday? Saturday? Who the hell cares. It’s time to drink. Time to wallow away the miseries of another long week.
The bar smells like stale cotton candy and peanut shells. There’s a man in the corner with a knight’s helmet on. It’s a goddamn circus in here. I’d like to roundhouse the shit out of this idiot. No time: I need a drink.
I slam a shot of Malibu. Another shot of Malibu. I pound a Mike’s Hard. “I’m fucking hard,” I tell myself.
Jezebel dances up on stage. The lights are dim as she meringues to If You Like Pina Colada. The fuck wearing the knight’s helmet is pounding on the stage screaming for her to shake it. I want to break his arm in twenty-seven places. If I grew a toe for every time I’ve broken someone’s arm; I’d have a shitload of toes to stand on. All the better to roundhouse with, my dear.
I signal for another shot. I slam it back like apple juice. Jezebel stops dancing. The knight helmet still pounds on the stage for more. This fucker’s going down.
“You finished, jackass?”
“What’s with the Karate getup?” he asks, motioning to my black belt.
“If you knew the answer to that, you’d already be dead.”
The fear in his eyes shines out like a nightlight from a pussy ass five-year-old’s bedroom.
I swing. He catches my arm and snaps it in twenty-seven places.
“Fuck.”
“All finished, Karate Kid?” he asks.
I walk away like the bigger man that I am. If I had a finger for every time this sort of thing has happened. I’d have twelve fingers. Twelve massive middle fingers to stick into his face while screaming, “Real fucking McCoy!”
I signal for a cab outside the bar.
“Where to?” he asks.
“My mother’s house.”
“What’s with the Karate getup?”
I smirk. “If you knew the answer to that, you’d already be dead.”
James is a creative writing/education major at the University of Colorado, Boulder. When he's not trouncing through horribly boring lit texts he inhabits a convenient, liminal space in which bumping uglies refers to hip-checking patrons of Walmart...try it sometime.
by James Neenan
The neon bar signs beckon to me like a needle to a junkie. What day is it? Friday? Saturday? Who the hell cares. It’s time to drink. Time to wallow away the miseries of another long week.
The bar smells like stale cotton candy and peanut shells. There’s a man in the corner with a knight’s helmet on. It’s a goddamn circus in here. I’d like to roundhouse the shit out of this idiot. No time: I need a drink.
I slam a shot of Malibu. Another shot of Malibu. I pound a Mike’s Hard. “I’m fucking hard,” I tell myself.
Jezebel dances up on stage. The lights are dim as she meringues to If You Like Pina Colada. The fuck wearing the knight’s helmet is pounding on the stage screaming for her to shake it. I want to break his arm in twenty-seven places. If I grew a toe for every time I’ve broken someone’s arm; I’d have a shitload of toes to stand on. All the better to roundhouse with, my dear.
I signal for another shot. I slam it back like apple juice. Jezebel stops dancing. The knight helmet still pounds on the stage for more. This fucker’s going down.
“You finished, jackass?”
“What’s with the Karate getup?” he asks, motioning to my black belt.
“If you knew the answer to that, you’d already be dead.”
The fear in his eyes shines out like a nightlight from a pussy ass five-year-old’s bedroom.
I swing. He catches my arm and snaps it in twenty-seven places.
“Fuck.”
“All finished, Karate Kid?” he asks.
I walk away like the bigger man that I am. If I had a finger for every time this sort of thing has happened. I’d have twelve fingers. Twelve massive middle fingers to stick into his face while screaming, “Real fucking McCoy!”
I signal for a cab outside the bar.
“Where to?” he asks.
“My mother’s house.”
“What’s with the Karate getup?”
I smirk. “If you knew the answer to that, you’d already be dead.”
James is a creative writing/education major at the University of Colorado, Boulder. When he's not trouncing through horribly boring lit texts he inhabits a convenient, liminal space in which bumping uglies refers to hip-checking patrons of Walmart...try it sometime.
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