The Devil's Own Piss

The Great Double Caper of ’79 (Part 6 of 6)

Part 6: I Didn’t Come Here to Fold

There I was, sitting at the bar at Kelly’s Bar and Grill for all the world like I belonged there. Considering the novelty of the situation, I felt remarkably comfortable. I had a nice chat with Angel, which helped. Said she used to dance, but got a little old for it. She was my first favorite bartender. And the bar-stool gave me a place from which to scout out…

The Great Double Caper of ’79 (Part 5 of 6)

Part 5: Chaser? I Hardly Know Her

If you’ve read this far, you’re probably expecting a scene at Kelly’s where I get my comeuppance. A Seth Rogen-esque escapade where the kid gets in over his head – a coming of age story where the absurdity of the attempt leads to hilarious, abject clusterfuckery. Well, I’m going to spoiler that right off the bat. Aside from two brief moments of panic, my first…

The Great Double Caper of ’79 (Part 4 of 6)

Part 4: No More Nor Less Than the Next Young Dude. I Hope.

I don’t think I was any more or less obsessed with the mysteries of the female form and its possible practical applications than the next sixteen-year-old guy. I might even say less. If I may say so, I was pretty well rounded. I was well read and well traveled, meaning I had a broader set of interests than many my age. I was a sports…

The Great Double Caper of ’79 (Part 3 of 6)

Part 3: Invaluable Tutelage on Important Matters

His name was Connie. It never occurred to me that it might be a woman’s name. Like a boy named Sue. He was a strapping man. Tall and broad with hands the size of hockey gloves. We loaded trucks together for a couple of weeks during that summer, just outside of Atlanta. I was brought in from the temp agency to give Connie a hand during a busy time.…

The Great Double Caper of ’79 (Part 2 of 6)

Part 2: The Terrible Benevolence of Uncle Willy

Uncle Willy’s real name was Charles. But everybody called him Willy. He was retired from the Air-force, and now worked for the U.S. Postal Service. He had been nice enough to offer to let me spend the summer of 1979 living in an Airstream trailer in his back yard. Besides a bed, I had some storage, a little table, a boom box, electricity, and a…

The Great Double Caper of ’79 (Part 1 of 6)

Part 1: The Mermaids Most Definitely Sing to Me

The first time I saw a full-grown woman’s boobs, in person I mean, and the first time I drank bourbon were one and the same occasion. I did the double at a place called Kelly’s Bar and Grill. I was sixteen.

Kelly’s had been a place of intrigue to me for a month or so prior to my entering its doors. I drove by it twice a day. The stand-alone building…

Twila Jefferson looked down the gravel road leading to her home. In the dusty distance a figure approached. In spite of the the back-lighting from the now rapidly setting sun, she could see it was a man. He looked like Tom Waits with a bit of a pot belly and a goatee. More of a soul patch. Not that she knew who Tom Waits was. What she did know was that the stranger looked familiar, but still…

The Guyclops: A Shot of Whiskeyed Up Mythology

Whiskey sez: It’s been, what, nine, ten months or so since I last posted a story. Usually when I have a long gap like that I spin you some yarn like the time I got kidnapped by the Trope Brothers, or when I spent a few months taking care of Elpis the Promise Chicken, or when I was kidnapped by aliens. I’m not going to do that this time. Truth is, it’s just been a crazy, busy time that has not…

Yanking Jacob Marley’s Chain

Whiskey Sez: We’ve all read a bit of little Chucky Dickens, right? He made a bit of lettuce as a writer back in the day. And the better part of his Iceberg Wedge Salad, if you know what I mean, came from a yak-inducing redemption story of one Ebenezer Scrooge. Well, I’ve been speaking to my own personal connection to The Underworld and, turns out, Chucky got it all wrong, or at least took some…

The Devil Drinks Tanqueray (An Implied Lucifestus Story)

I found him down at The Rusty Liver. All the way at the far end of the bar. By himself, the devil. He was drinking gin. No mixer, just gin. His eyes alternated between the twenty-four hour news cycle on TV and his glass. I sat down next to him.

I said, “I used to be a ballpark organist.” I looked over to see if he was listening. Hard to tell. “I was the best. Well, maybe not the best, best. But I…