It resided within one of the oldest parts of the city. It existed to serve, and it had done well for years. The men and women who came in attendance drank and jested with one another till the night was nigh and the morning was nil. Frank was the owner and he had a reputation with the woman. Almost every other week a stumbler was clamoring into the wrong room with Frank groaning and a waitress on her knees. The piano player had always had an addiction of the Blues and was always creating a musical note storm. He was talented. He could have been somebody, but his true passion lay in the Opium dens at the waterfront and unfortunately the long sightedness in him and been burned out of him by the addiction and the hookers. Marie Jo was his favorite and even she sauntered into the Elk every once in a while. Usually tweaked out her mind, willing to fuck anyone for a dime bag and a Guinness. Once and just once a particular surly patron by the name of Patrick, named for near alliteration’s sake, had taken a crooked swing at a man named James over a lost sports bet and a subsequent poor choice of words. Instead, he ended up clocking Marie Jo in the nose. A gush of blood and an equally crooked punch later Frank and the house pianist beat the pulp out Patrick so badly that it was unsure whether the street rats would be able tell if it were James or Patrick once the blood coagulated upon his features. However, these sights were rare and just like the Elk, the Spark, and the Rum Bin the fights were minimal, the hookers were plentiful, and the sadness was perpetual.
Our ferret, Hanz, is driving me up a wall! He won’t stop trundling around the apartment knocking cups of coffee and lamps off the shelves because he’s to sad to even walk in a straight line…and, then when you do get him to look up at you his eyes are just swollen with tears and he immediately chokes up, and then proceeds to race off into the closet of solitude to weep his sad tears away into the gorilla formerly known as Prince’s fur.
So, in order to pick his spirits up, yet again I might add, I thought of this little dandy! The other day the Comcast ‘dude’ came meandering through are apartment complex asking for money and weed for a signature, so we of course locked the doors and evaded his hoarse calls upon the poorly constructed apartment door until he fell back down the stairs to his next floor of victims. After a quick peek through a crack in the door a Comcast business card could be seen hanging from the notice clip beside the jam with the words “Free Hookers” scrawled across the front.
So, after mopey ferret decided to become…if this is even more possible…mopier? I dug though our piles of mail and dredged up the sticky Comcast business card and gave it a jingle. After a brief conversation, a twenty to grease the wheels, and several gross violations ‘Pita’ protocols I was able to have Comcast send over their finest ferret hooker.
Now, I am currently just politely waiting for a soft-pawed knock at my door, and hopefully by this evening Hanz by will be a little less mopey. Word has it from the Comcast representative that the ferret hooker’s name is Barb and she comes with her own pack of cigarettes…good times indeed Hanz, good times indeed!
Everyone wish Hanz a good evening, and everyone else have a good morning because Hanz is gettin’ lucky!