Thursday, February 2, 2017
Hey Chief (5)
"Hey Chief (5)"
Max and Paul had ignited a protracted conversation over her repeatedly bringing him more and more sunny-side up eggs. Paul knew never to order scrambled, for they could drop them on the floor; next, scoop them right up and you'd never know. Anyway, he kept re-ordering the eggs to talk to Max, and had gotten her name by now, and she his. Feeling the axiomatic connection the twosome had for one another, Max took her break, sitting across from Paul in the booth, and they chatted it up.
MAX
Your mustache is a paragon.
PAUL
Liked her Waffle House vocabulary. I'm a barber--it's a bit of dandyism on my part.
MAX
Yeah, you're a sharp dresser too. Most folks in these parts are all blue jeans and flannel.
PAUL
I've thought about it--I do use chaw--got some red on my neck.
MAX
We all do around here. Hell, it's Arkansas.
PAUL
That's what they keep telling me; anyway, I'm not exactly a lady's man, but you sure got some sincere beauty about you. Would you like to rent Eddie the Eagle at a Redbox and watch it with me at my trailer?
MAX
Blushed, having hoped for a date question. I'm not easy, but a guy as neatly attired as you displays merit. I'd love to hang with you Paul.
The suave synergy of the two souls exchanged numbers, and the date was set.
Hey Chief (4)
"Hey Chief (4)"
Maxine, or "Max" as she was called, worked the night-shift at a Waffle House in El Dorado, Arkansas--a modest city in the Hog Heaven State. Max was a welcoming waitress, having a butterscotch nimbus fashioned by way of a pixie cut, and was as pretty as pearls.
It was just another mundane night of county cops, miscreants, and your garden-variety vampires; however, one tall, wiry man sauntered in, and he was all mustache--a total cowboy-styled dirt squirrel or cookie duster atop his full and kissable lips--if she would have been the neurotic George from the 90's show Seinfeld, she would've blurted: "LOOK JERRY! HE'S ALL MUSTACHE!"
But she wasn't neurotic, into the paranormal, nor had any affiliation with organized religion--just a young lady attempting to get by in this sometimes cruel America. So, she gently approached him with a sparkle in her emerald-green eyes, asking: "Where would you like to sit sir?"
Paul immediately felt the electricity of mystical love pulse through his thoracic cavity, feeling like he was going to have a panic attack upon viewing such an "up close" beauty, but kept his composure cool; next, calmly said: "I'll take a booth." Then, Max elegantly turned and led him--Paul's eyes glued to her golden legs steered by Reebok sneakers.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Hey Chief (3)
"Hey Chief (3)"
Paul was over at Trevor's trailer, the interior decorated by pin-ups of toyland babes in pumps, doing the half-naked body stretch over fancy automobiles and crap like that, but hey--Trevor owned it; on the flip side, Paul remained a bit stoic, having held onto his dandyism, not shaving his gentleman-era mustache, though held a cold Bud in his hand; plus, had a mouthful of mint chaw, but paid no attention to Trevor's perversion with the world, just needed a friend.
So, as Trevor went on and on about this hot chick he was banging, Paul was blocking him out, pondering how psychiatrists and others attempt to hide the truth, labeling some psychotic, when of course they totally are, yet then those brilliant madmen, seeing into the Otherworld with surgical precision--even better, and knowing they're not mad, but enlightened, holding onto the enchantment that drives them, while the normal folk, like Trevor, are all about the cold six-pack and crummy cable shows, never displaying the true theology of man's mystical intercourse with the unseen, though seen by many, yet only the steeled can handle it, and Paul was about ready to write a letter to the Corinthians, allegorically.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
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