Story by Sandshoe.
Shoe and Hung are sittin’ at the bar. They’re fit to burst judgin’ the expression on their faces to say somethin’.Shoe … that’s me (credit idea to Mark who’s Hung to put self in) so don’t go fashin’ yoursel’ ’bout the unusalness of puttin’ a first person in instead of the third and pretendin’ they’re not loungin’ ’round in this e-stablishment with the rest of ’em spinnin’ tall tales and gossipin’ ’bout famous people like their tomorrow’s are all used up … and Hung who’s a sort of confidante of betcha, well, once crowned heads of Europe and knows most the names of every bikie in the carpark since he bandaged up their sore punchin’ wrists and
daubed iodine on cuts on their sweaty faces durin’ a brawl (lasted a week one long hot summer) they got in started by a mob of upswept vs natural’n’loose hairdressers … are gasbags.
It’s notable the two of ’em are sittin’ at the bar sayin’ nothin’ with that expression on both of their dials anybody knows who frequents … a place of low repute in some people’s diarisin’ and best place in others’ poetry anthology … this place, no home from home sweeter or e-stablishment their fancyin’, not only a scant mention in a lengthy history of the universe and no joke, their place in their sunset years to roost, perpetuals, like the chooks in the rafters.
Hung: Did you say the rafters, Shoe?
Shoe: I did, Hung. I did. Comprendez vous? Comprendez tes mes votre CHOOKS? The Pig’s Arms’ CHOOKS?
Hung: Bit flowery, Shoe. No matter. You sure about the rafters?
Hung: This comes to me as a surprise we’ve chooks in the attic.
Shoe: Me too. Not for long. Granny brought ’em back from Mejico, el pollo, see the new menu.
Hung: You mean Mex-ee-co. When did she go there?
Hung: Shoe, I can’t even hear ’em. In the attic? You believed her? I’ll talk to Granny.
Shoe: You’ll be goin’. She’s like a fashed chook on the run. She washed and starched the runner off the bar. She’s in the laundry tryin’ to iron it flat. Reckons she’s done it now.
Foodge: It’s perpendikular?
McSpoorrran (swaggers in the door in a dramatic cover all of clumps of hair of all colours and merged with red hair aglow on shafts of sunlight on his arms, bellows good naturedly): FOODGE! I gave y’ a lend for the hair cut and doin’ yourr nails, mon. Y’ll no’ be spendin’ m’ money in Rrrosie’s Emporrrium and House of Pain drrrinkin’ herr bottomless wee demi tasse’s of mocha and gigglin’ in m’ earrr thrrrough the thin walls in the tenant’s quarrrters all night long and paintin’ herr kitchen clatterrrin’ ladderrrs at 1 o’ the clock in the morrrrrnin’. Y’ owe me, mon. Aye, och, I’ve taken on the empty apparrrtment down the laneway. I’m yourrr neighbourrr now, wee mon and I’ve m’ rrrent to pay.
Foodge’s face would tell us of one dealin’, dinkum, with an ever life alterin’ history of the universe. I’ve laid a bet on it in the Sports Bar.
4:09 pm, South Australian time, 3 January, 2017.
PS: Read about Rosie and Rosie’s Emporium.
PPS: Read about McSpoorrran opening upstairs for men above Glenda’s Pig’s Legs Waxing and Beauty Salon
Apologies to Sandshoe. I received this story last week but was unable to publish it due to serious health reasons. I went bungee jumping and the rope was too long and needed a few days off.