Day 3 – Beware of the Bar

with shorts!

I am going out tonight, so thought it would be best to write this one a little early…….idea came again from Chris ….. and it is entirely his fault: subject to small print.

Word Count: 1289

It is genuinely and intentionally shit. And I haven’t read it yet….

Day 3 – The Bar That Wanted Everyone to Just Shut Up

It was awful. It had been awful for a while. For years. He was the only thing left from the original design. Everything else had changed; been upgraded, updated by spangly new fashions, new ideas. Everything was now all glitzy and glossy. But it was horrendous. Everything about this place was horrendous but himself. He was the only decent thing about it.

Back in the day it had been the best club in town. Back in the day they had posh clientèle, they had Maitre D’s. They had swanky cocktails and padded seating. They had chandeliers from the ceiling and a live band every Saturday. A decent band; brass instruments and all. There was a fireplace and a piano beside it. Champagne swam down several dozen layers of glasses, all laid out in a pyramid.

But now? It was all high heeled chavs in mini skirts and testosterone fuelled child-men in baggy tshirts and shorts. He couldn’t abide men in shorts inside the bar. There were bands of giggling girls; teams of men discussing seduction tactics in the crudest possible ways. If it were up to him, he’d have them all shot. But he was just the lowly Bar. He was just the wooden prop for all their sticky drinks. He was nothing. He wasn’t the centre piece any more and it sickened him.

It was a Saturday evening. The place started to fill up around half ten. It was the kind of night that that made him feel grateful he wasn’t the dancefloor in the other room. The amount of cellulite on show was phenomenal and he had no desire to see it from that angle. Not that being the bar made it much worse. If he wasn’t thigh height, he was mid-drift height, and if he wasn’t that he was sagging tit height. He just couldn’t win. Did none of these chavs ever go to the gym, take a walk, buy a decent sized bra?

The barmen behind the bar didn’t help either. They were the pretentious ones that went to uni by day and partied hard all night. The ones who, he wished, would hopefully fuck it up all soon and go back to mummy and daddy. He couldn’t stand them. What happened to the ones from years back? What happened to a little bit of respect? The little fuckers behind the bar couldn’t locate the glass if they had it shoved up their left nostril – and by the amount of shots they kept on slipping themselves, they practically have tried.

This particular Saturday, it was all getting a bit too much for the Bar. It had had rum spilt on it; sambuca shots, a small monsoon of jaeger bombs and at least a small ocean’s worth of WKD flowing along the top of it. It was royally pissed off. Not to mention that Ms Size Of a Truck was parked without a permit at one end, tanking down some strangely coloured cocktail while Mr Earthquakes Happen On The Other Side of The World When I Walk was meandering his hands all over her backside and down her inappropriately sold-to-her thong. Ms Fake Tits wasn’t doing him the world of favours either by perking her would-be-sagging boobs on the edge of him. It felt wrong and weird and quite disgusting. Mr Hard Cock next to her was quite clearly leering as well. Jesus, it was a long Saturday.

“God, if only I had a mouth,” the Bar thought to himself “I’d tell all these people to shut up. I’d tell them to leave in the most rude possible way. I’d bite their ankles and I’d made sure they’d never come back. I’d frighten them half to death and hopefully knock a few of them over the other half as well.”

And it was at that point that something strange started to happen to him. As the dance music thudded on, and the dancers and hot pant girlies and guys bopped along to their alcopops and horrendous beats, something happened that none of them were aware of. The Bar, though on first glance appeared to be unchanged, was now beginning to grow something quite unusual.

“Ouch,” the Bar thought to himself, “This is weird. Bizarre, even. Has someone punched me again? I’ll fuckin’ deck them if they’ve kicked my engraved cornice!”

But no one had – at that moment anyway – kicked the Bar. Any keen eyed witness could have told in an instant what was happening. But as the Bar in a trendy part of town, no one actually paid any attention whatsoever as so what lay underneath the Bar’s surface.

“What’s going on here, I can feel something… is something growing? Aarrrrgh, what the deuce!?”

A tequilla slammer slammed down on him from somewhere in the centre and sent a rocketing pain down through his wood and into what was rapidly becoming his root canal. Slowly and out of nowhere, thirty two similarly formed shapes were growing out of his ornate antique woodwork. In between these shapes, was a blackening gap that was rapidly forming a dark chasm. From this black cavern, something else started to grow. A deep red slimy thing. It swished and swashed from side to side and caressed the top layer of sixteen now-smooth and perfectly gleaming white teeth.

“What’s this,” the Bar found itself thinking. But instead, the words escaped through its newly formed mouth.

And if it wasn’t for all the noise and commotion, all the dancing and sweaty men in brightly coloured pink shirts trying to impress the equally unattractively dressed women in equally brightly coloured decorative underwear; and if it weren’t for the fact that half a million or so customers were piled around the bar in queue for a quick shot of booze, then maybe someone might have noticed the Bar begin to talk. And if someone had maybe heard the first few words that the bar muttered, then it might not have stolen the opportunity that came next.

Ms High Heel Platforms was stampeding around in a hissy fit near the bar. Just inches away from his new tongue. His new taste sensing tongue. The Bar thought to itself for a second. But it was barely more than a light negotiation with his own counsel to agree that it probably wouldn’t matter if he had a quick lick. She was probably too wasted to even feel anything on her leg – certainly by the look of her she most likely didn’t feel very much a little further up anymore!

And so the Bar took its first taste. It liked her somewhat hairy legs. And after remarking to himself that she probably should have shaved them before going out, confirmed with himself that this was definitely something that he didn’t at all mind the taste of. He went in for another taste. And another. Before he knew it half her leg was in his mouth. And he thought that seeing as he’d committed himself this much, he might as well continue.

It was certainly not to the girl’s credit that no one actually noticed that she’d been plucked off her feet leaving only her handbag behind on the floor. Her boyfriend merely threw his arms in the air as if to say “not again” and the Bar thought that, just to be on the safe side, he might as well have a swipe at him too.

And it was with that that the Bar finally managed to do what the government could not: control the birth rate for parents of an IQ of less than 102.

~ by S.G. Mark on October 10, 2011.

3 Responses to “Day 3 – Beware of the Bar”

  1. Hehehehe.

  2. Eye loved that. I really do try to treat all humans equally but sometimes can’t avoid being a snob.
    Your BF might be interested in this:

  3. Love it. Maybe they can install one of these in Leith 😉

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