Throughout the day, he could head home, rest forever without a care ..

       daze of days never ending ..

           Flabby Gastro: sub-radar proprietor,

              cook and bartender would top-up.

    Serving a round amiably he’d then serve himself. Top shelf. Reduced price if any price at all added to the till, merely an old robotic habit.. and then a big chubby handful of honeyed cashews.

  He’d top-up, cash-up regularly heading off for the back door of his bar to make ongoing exchanges then jovially pop-up at a punter’s table with a newly conjured up bad-jokes-are-good-jokes quip.. His presence put people at ease and the fun, momentary guard-drops and dry daftness lifted spirits and sales of spirits.

  Sometimes, though rarely he’d bark with echo and  ack-ack expletives and pick up a wriggling, squirming featheresque fool who was sure to have flared-up unjustly or dared (regardless of volition, excuses, forgiveness or ancient philosophical debates) to throw-up or kick-off instigating nothing more than scowls and worldly laughter with a wild punch in Flabby’s clean profitable and tranquil joint.

  People needed to speak easy. People needed to relax.. share plots, information, tales: let their hair down in safe harbour.

Flabby liked peace.

His associates liked peace.

  Countries, colluding conglomerates and dark paid-up politicians he'd decided years ago initiated and courted wars but he liked peace, propagated peace and that bankrolled distant property and sharp suits stitched-up by sharp bespoke tailors..

  There was nothing quite like the wow-wow head-turning glide of his snazzed up chrome and leather wheels: the enviable flow of dazzled head-turning ladies he would take out, cruising around town for a drive.

        The upstart was on the pavement outside in pain:

I didn’t do anything.

I didn’t do anything.

I didn’t fucking do anything.

 

  Damned fools had always done something... And only a few legendary, crazed maverick curveball specialists got to leave via free will. And usually it was because every mother in the joint and father too was in tears, pointing, smiling, howling and slapping each other crazily and playfully as an otherworldly pole-axed rapscallion with ad-lib, consummate drama stood on the spit and sawdust stage swaying. A booming bellowed mustard vignette. Magnificent aplomb, zero care or stage-fright.. No drive-in could get anywhere near such sozzled soliloquy. Such heartbreaking beat beaten imposters were Zen masters. No method. 100% moonshine. Bad flashbacks. Phobias of ghosts.

  Searching: yearning: irreparable. Bottled-up and blurted-out it was secretly so sad to see such heartbreak and broken-mindedness that was also laughter inducing entertainment and insanity.

Nobody was gonna say to Flabby,

                                        “Christ, let’s stop this sadness. Poor guy”

 

  Everybody was mesmerised by the madness and genius on show, the mad savant before them who was destined for life scrambling out of the gutter: life thwarted by alienation and random episodes of forced asylum.

    Johnny popped outside discretely.

       “I’m gonna help you out kid. You best move along

or I’ll have to come out again and

help you a touch more myself.”

  Booji Cali was a new kid from the ghetto. Wiry, fast.

    Flabby saw him pop when he was driving around town and sensed something extra: scarily handy: a young calm calm smart brain.

The kid’s gonna bring good to the table.

  Booji Cali ..

        was intuitive. Flabby had high hopes. No nod. No whispered info just Booji’s intuitive Barrio vibe. Watching Flabby the big fella tutting, he’d tut-tut silently, subtle shakes of strong shoulders and head.

  Booji was street enough to know keeping order meant chaos was adjacent, tucked in a cupboard, behind a door,  never far away. Organised chaos. Swift chaos.

  Mythological chaos that was no myth. Mythological chaos was a warning, an invisible boundary. People rarely approached the perimeter. It was one helluva multi-faceted gargoyle. There were invitations. People were invited. People were just duped into the vortex or invited.

  Booji saw feral strength in Flabby. He saw tough times: the street: ghettoes. He saw a big face who could pick-up anybody like a feather, throw them out like a trash-can and mop-up spills and problems as fate and the reputation of his Jukebox Joint and crew and credibility authored.

Fate the author.

Serendipity the scriptwriter.

The joint was people: characters: humanity.

  The joint was quiet. The joint was alive: Everyone dancing, eating and drinking: fuelling their personal, chameleon amnesias. Forget about it. Another fix of Bourbon. They were trying to. The joint: escape from reality, another realism, a fiesta of forgetfulness. Forget about it,

.. erase unwanted ghosts

feed and water one’s chameleon amnesias.

    Salmon who drank like a fish had exploded in the bar years earlier: body and veins no longer able to take the pressure of relentless alcoholism. Once upon a time Salmon was an androgynous handsome fluid precision guitarist, the next Flabby was mopping up his aftermath. Blood.

Spills.. borne of shock

dropped plates and glasses.

Flabby yelled to Johnny.

“Call the medics.”