Electric velvet. Bitch felt soft. She was a classy broad. She glided across the floor as if weightless. He was a shitfaced mess. A mere victim in the eyes of this professional. Once their eyes met he was done for. There was no use in trying to persuade my inebriated colleague. He wanted her. He said so. Not so eloquently as I've stated it mind you. It was more like this --> "Did you see her badunk? Man, I wonder if her meat curtains are the same color? If so, maybe I can con her into playing 'just the tip'.."
It was an odd day to begin with. After hungoverly driving to pick up my esteemed partner in crime, we drove up Power road on our way to catch a Minor League Baseball double header. As we approached Astrozon Blvd., we noticed a crotch rocket laying on its side. About 200yds further we seen the helmeted figure laying limp on the side of the road. "That fuckers dead." Jesse says. I still to this day have not been able to retract the image from my memory. I often wonder if he/she was in fact dead. I also think that I should have called someone. The thing about being stoic and gankster is that under no circumstance should you EVER call the police. I know that many of you may trust the cops. Where I grew up, you just don't. Ever.
She said her name was Pandora. <-- (Proceed with caution) We both knew that it was a stage name and for whatever reason paid it no mind. *sidenote* I am a shitty wingman. While I was politely turning down the wanton strippers for lap dances, my dear friend was being hornswaggled. On the norm, I would happily help the maiden swindle my friend out of his money while she dry humped his leg. Yes, sometimes guys are dicks and like to watch their whiskey drunk comrades fumble the ball and lose their cool. Anyway, Pandora was wearing his prized Yankees World Series hat and grinding her hatchet wound all over the leg of his lightly starched and pressed Dickies. He was a goner. I seen it.
"The only thing cooler than a guy who gets a lot of chicks, is a guy who scares a lot of chicks." After seeing a dead biker on the side of the road, it figured to be a peculiar day. We arrive at the ball park and all anyone would talk about was the the massacre that was happening just up the road in Littleton. Evidently two boys in trench coats were shooting and killing all of their classmates and faculty at their school. We were both mesmerized by the brutality being unleashed by high school kids. Although enjoying the ambiance of a baseball game, I couldn't shake the thought of what had already transpired on this day.
She sat down next to him and began to chat. Small talk mostly. I kept bringing up rancid conversation and trying my best to make her understand that although he dressed like a baller, he maybe had 30 bucks in his wallet and I'd be damned if he was gonna spend it on pleasures of the flesh. I asked him if his leg smelt fishy. I asked him if he thought she REALLY liked him. I made it awkward as fuck. Personally, I don't pay for flesh. I know, I'm a frickin jerkwad. Sue me. I don't like the idea of tossin away my loot for some tits. If it's your money and you want me to throw it at strippers, than give it to me and I'll serve them up like a champ. My cheddar though? Negative ghost rider.
As the 2nd game came to a close, we plotted our next destination. We went home, changed clothes, and then headed out to see a live band. The band we seen was pretty good. They weren't very well known at the time and nowadays you'd definitely pay more than 4 bucks to see them. (I'd name the band, but I'm not a name dropping assclown.) All was right in the werld. 2 dollar pitchers of PBR and live music. After about 6 pitchers, our horn dawg friend Chris called. (imagine The "O" face guy from Office Space. That's Chris.) He wanted to hit up the Jiggly room. Jesse being all smug and drunk, and me willing to let someone else play DUI roulette happily obliged..
Cool as a polar bears toenails we drifted into the smoke filled abyss. We sat and the game began..