Vinegar Village (2 of 2)

So, I was sort of sad about the unfortunate death of Mr. Hulk and was walking around the VILLAGE and it was getting a little later in the day and then I soon found myself inside this electric saloon and casino that looked like the old Wild, Wild West but with neon and crackling and rebel rousers in fancy pants and trollops in stilettos all smacking away and laughing really wild, like animals, and there was the smell of perfume and smoke all mingled like hot sex in the back seat of a silver Opal and there I was trying to sit by myself at a small table to smoke a ciggy wiggy and enjoy a few glasses of imported Scotch whiskey, but then people were bumping into me and stealing the other chairs from my table and laughing at me because there I was all alone in this wild crowd and no one seemed to give a damn that Mr. Hulk had just been killed by a yoga chick.

Yeah, no one ever really knows what’s going on inside your own world and why you be the way you be and their bimbo, bozo narrow-minded misunderstanding makes them just laugh and point like a bunch of spoiled bitches. And I grew tired of it all and saw that there was a staircase that went up, up, up and so I went up, up, up.


And up there it was a home-style country scene all warm and soft and peaceful that showed how people used to live like a century plus a go. There was a long hallway with a wooden floor and off the hallway there were several rooms where actors and such were all dressed up in fashion appropriate for the period of time they were portraying and they were pretending to live life like it was when it wasn’t the mad mess we have now.

I looked into the room at the very end of the hall. There was a girl in there wearing a long, green and white checkered dress, like old-fashioned armor for a sinewy body. There was a white bonnet upon her blonde head. She was holding a stuffed dog and walking around the room, a room sparsely furnished, with white walls, white curtains slapping around the frame of an open window. And as she walked around the room with the stuffed dog she talked about life back then and how it was and how she liked to churn butter the best because it was so “sexual” and then she sat on the edge of a squeaky bed clad in fresh, white linens, and then suddenly this young man dressed in similar time fashion and with thick curly dark hair stormed into the room right past me and he moved on her without any hesitation and kissed her right on her unadorned mouth. She looked a bit puzzled at first and then she seemed to get even angry. She stood up, threw the stuffed dog across the room, and started talking about how she would tell on him for his “indiscretion.” There was a momentary pause, and then they both turned to me, smiled, and then bowed like actors.


I went back downstairs to the noise and wild lights. I needed a drink and maybe something to eat. And while I searched for a table in all the hoopla, I saw Mr. Gorgon come in through the doors followed by Mr. English who was holding a girl in one hand and his bottle of Red Wine Vinaigrette Salad Dressing in the other. I moved through the crowd to greet them and to my horror noticed that Mr. Gorgon had big chunks of broken beer bottles sticking out of his stomach and chest. They were real nasty wounds and I could even look inside his guts and see a pile of broken glass there and Mr. Gorgon just laughed and whooped it up and acted like nothing was wrong.

I had to yell over the roar of the crowd to him.

“I think you better go to the hospital. Those are some nasty wounds you got there, Mr. Gorgon.”

He just smiled and looked down at his body.

“What? This? Aw come on, it’s just some bits of broken glass. Doesn’t hurt a bit.”

“It looks rather nasty,” I said to him. “It could get infected and then you’ll be in real big trouble. Maybe even dead like Mr. Hulk.”

“Ah, you worry too much Mr. Hat. Always worried about shit and you never take the time to just relax and have some fun.”

Mr. English leaned in then.

“What’s this about Mr. Hulk being dead then?”

“Yes, he’s dead all right,” I said to him. “That yoga chick shoved him into a tree and done him in.”

“What in bloody hell would she do that for?” asked Mr. English, looking at his chick and shaking his head. “Sounds like one of your friends killed one of my friends, sister. What the hell is up with that then?”

The chick pulled away from Mr. English and put her hands on her hips.

“Well, she wasn’t my friend and don’t get all nasty with me about it. I had nothing to do with it. For all we know, he was trying to rape her and well, then he got what he deserved.”

“Ah, piss off you bitch. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just a drunk and a stupid girl,” Mr. English said to her.

I could tell the chick was steaming mad and about ready to haul off on ol’ Mr. English, but she clamped her mouth tight, looked up at the ceiling, frantically tapped her toes and then burst out like a tea pot come to boil: “Well at least I don’t chum around with a bottle of salad dressing all day, ya bloody freak!”

The entire place suddenly went silent except for some soft whispers and the shuffling of sleeves against sleeves. “You didn’t have to say that then did you?” a dejected Mr. English said to the chick. “That was a mean thing to say, and in front of all these people, too.”

Mr. English clutched his bottle of Red Wine Vinaigrette Salad Dressing, bowed his head and worked his way through the crowd, out the EXIT and into the night.

The noise began to roar again immediately like some great conflagration in a hip Albuquerque dancehall.

Mr. Gorgon tugged at my sleeve.

“I’m going to the bar; would you like me to bring you back a drink?”

“No, I don’t think so… You’re really not going to the hospital?”

“Hell no, it’s party time mate and I feel fine. I feel fit.”

“All right then,” I said to him. “I think I’m going to leave.”

“Aw, you don’t want to stay and see if I can get more broken glass in my belly?” Mr. Gorgon said with a laugh. “I bet we can find you a girl in here. You just need to loosen up a bit, like me.”

And he slapped me on the shoulder.

“There was a girl upstairs, acting out some scene with a guy who looked like Arnold Horshack.” I said to Mr. Gorgon. “He tried to make it with her, but she got all psycho and said she was going to tell on him. I don’t know who.”

“Well, that sounds bloody weird,” Mr. Gorgon said.

“Yes, it was weird, very weird, but it wasn’t a bad scene. They were reliving history, just for me.”

“Well, there’s a feather in your cap… Mr. Hat. Heh, that’s kind of funny isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

I drained my last bit of Scotch whiskey and just dropped the glass on the floor.

 “So, Mr. Gorgon, how do I get out of this dream?”

END


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