November 29th, 2012 / 10:14 am
Literary Magazine Club

It is Thursday: Go Right Ahead

Holding up banks, for example. Or directing movies. Or being a gigolo. Or being a child again and playing on a more or less apocalyptic soccer team

Though they do their best to get drunk, they can’t.

I was also thinking, indulgently, that we were pretty drunk already and that it was time to go home.

No, I am not still at the bar.

Crystallized spiderwebs or the briefest crystallized vomitings.

Drunk as a bony shoulder.

Eat 15 different cheeses and drink a bottle of Rioja.

They held their drink like Chileans.

Well, there was a little ol’ drunk, laughing.

Yes, plots are a strange matter.

Drink up, boys, drink up and don’t worry, if we finish this bottle we’ll go down and buy another one. Of course, it won’t be the same as the one we’ve got now, but it’ll still be better than nothing.

I remember drinking his face down to the last drop.

She ordered a ham roll and a beer.

Drink in long gulps, almost choking.

Sip whiskey with supreme slowness.

This is how you endure any kind of bombardment: drink schnapps, drink cognac, drink brandy, drink grappa, drink whiskey, drink any kind of strong drink, even wine…

Tore up as a soup sandwich.

Although we know, of course, that in the human scale of things, persistence is an illusion and reason is only a fragile railing that keeps us from plunging into the abyss.

And then the fight begins.



  1. deadgod

      After midnight, I was standing drinking at a bar. Next to me was a man and a woman the other side of him. They were arguing when I arrived:

      –If I see him at your house again, I’ll put a bullet between his eyes.

      –You’re the only one who sleeps in my bed.

      –I know, but I don’t like how he comes around.

      –Nothing’s going on.

      –I’m crazy; I see him again, I’ll shoot him between the eyes and I’ll spend the rest of my life in jail. I’m crazy–you know that.

      –What about that chick you call?

      –I don’t have her in my phone. Here, look.

      –I know it’s not there; you’re smart, you memorized it.

      –Tell you what, how about I go put a bullet between his eyes right now? Go ahead: you call him right now, I’m leaving, you call him and tell him I’m coming.

      –Nothing ever happened! What about that chick, you call her.

      –How about if I put a bullet between your eyes? That what you want, how about that.

      Below the bar top–he’s a short guy–, he pulled a gun from his front pants-pocket and leveled it at her gut.

      There were seven other people in the bar.

      Later, and by my count, there was another, lesser narrative climax involving drawn guns.

      Another story: the first thing this bitch told the cops–the first thing–, that dumb bastard “has a warrant out on him in New York”.

      What’s gained and what is lost when you assert or suppose that plots are imposed and not discovered?

  2. Frank Tas, the Raptor