Ruby's Pearls Elecmag 14/RUBYV14.ZIP/RUBY14-9

Text File | 1992-10-25 | 17KB | 292 lines

                       ADVENTURES AT KENT'S PLACE

                               The New Guy

         It had been one of those days! You know, the kind that takes
     forever to get through and by the time it's time to go home, you
     have an urgent need to stop somewhere along the way for a
     "refresher." Well, sir, it had definitely been one of those days!
          So, there I was, having dropped into Kent's Place for a
     much-needed respite--in other words, a good stiff drink!
         I sauntered through the overdone double doors and into the
     nether world contained within, ending up perched on a barstool
     like some disoriented tropical bird.
         Having taken up residence on an unoccupied stool, I motioned
     to the bartender to bring "something to cheer me up." Within
     minutes he returned with a shot glass and a bottle of Staggering
     Highlander.
         "This is the cheapest best, or the best cheapest, we got
     here," he announced as he set the bottle down with a loud thud. I
     grabbed the bottle and immediately poured a glassful. Tossing my
     head backward, I downed the entire contents in one gulp and
     reached for the bottle to repeat the act.
         Sensing that the bartender was still standing there, watching
     me as I downed a second one followed closely by a third, I looked
     to see the face belonging to the voice.
          "Thanks," I said. "Oh, bartender, I'm looking for the owner
     of this place. Name's Ballard, I believe. Is he here and, if so,
     would you mind pointing him out to me?"
         I continued pouring the peculiar-looking liquid down my
     throat as if there were no tomorrow.
         "Yeah, that's right. Ballard is the owner of this place. Kent
     Ballard, to be exact. And, I can also point him out to you. I'll
     even introduce you to him if you like. By the way, what's your
     name? You're new here, right?"
         "Name's Kirby...Greg Kirby. And, yeshir, I'm new here!" I
     said, returning my attention to the empty shot glass. "That would
     be very nishe of you, barkeep!" I said, slurring my speech a
     little as the potent liquid almost immediately began to take
     effect.
         "Well, then--Greg, was it?--you're looking at him!" he
     announced.
         I leaned forward, raising up a little from the barstool, in
     an attempt to look him directly in the eye. "Thash funny, you
     don't look like a Kent Ballard," I declared.
         "Then what the hell am I supposed to look like? And, just why
     are you looking for me?"
         "Ya shure do ashk a lotta queshions!" I said, pouring yet
     another drink. "From what I've heard, I wuz expectin' an old
     codger with silver-grey hair and wearing a diamond-studded dinner
     jacket, while prancin' around thish here eshtablishment. But,
     you're much too skinny to be Ballard, and you ain't got on no
     sparklin' jacket, neither. And, Sonny, how's about bringin' me a
     bigger glass? This'n ain't big enough; it jus' wants tuh stay
     empty too much!"
         He turned around, grabbed a larger glass, and set it down in
     front of me. With both hands gripping the tiny shotglass, and
     exercising extreme care, I slowly poured the contents of the shot
     glass into the larger container and then added more Highlander
     until it almost poured over the rim. I stretched my arm across
     in front of a fellow patron who appeared to have already passed
     his limit, and grabbed a plastic swizzle stick.
         Retracting my arm I stabbed the foul brew with the swizzle
     stick and began to swirl it around and around.
         "You still haven't told me why you were looking for me!"
     Ballard growled.
         "Sheesh!  They didn't tell me you wuz such a grump! I wuz
     tol' that you had a young woman who worked here that I should
     meet."
         "I have several young--and some not so young--women working
     here. Most of them are upstairs, though. Which one are you
     talking about?"
         "From what shome of the guys in the offish shaid, she wash
     worth coming in here to shee, eshpeshially after a long and
     horr...uh, horrb...uh, turb'l week. And, my frien, 'thish hash
     been one of the worsht weeks I've ever had!"
         "You must mean Brassy. Yes, she works for me, and yes, she's
     worth coming in for a look-see. Given your present condition from
     having already consumed all that Staggering Highlander, I'm not
     sure you can handle meeting Brassy. She's not what you'd expect!"
         "My good man, pleashe allow me to deshied that for myshelf."
         "Okay, if you say so, but don't say I didn't warn you." He
     turned and yelled loudly toward a door at the far end of the bar,
     "BRASSY!  BRASSY!  Somebody here to see you!" He turned around
     the other way and walked down the bar to wait on another guy who
     had just climbed onto a barstool.
         I waited, indulging in a long swig of the devilish fiery
     drink. I sat there for several minutes, avariciously swilling my
     drink after having stirred it vigorously with the swizzle stick,
     awaiting the arrival of the aforementioned Brassy.
         "BRASSY!!! Hurry up and get out here!" Ballard suddenly
     blurted at full volume again, startling me.
         Still swilling the Highlander, I raised my blurry eyes and
     looked around the room. I didn't really know any of the people
     there; I had only heard their names mentioned during some of the
     discussions with several of the guys at the office.
        All at once the door behind the bar at which Ballard had
     called for Brassy swung out, slamming against the wall.
     Suddenly, everyone's eyes turned toward it as she entered the
     barroom. Even through my misty, blurred vision, I could
     see her well enough that my chin dropped, and if I hadn't been
     numb from the effects of the Staggering Highlander I would have
     felt the pain as it hit the top of the bar.
         Trying in vain to focus on the creature who had just emerged
     from the back room, I started to say something to her when she
     shouted to Ballard, "Yeah, Kentie-poo, whatcha want?"
        "See that guy in the dark grey suit there at the bar?" he
     asked, pointing at me.
        "Yeah," she replied.
        "Well, he said some of his buddies told him to come in here
     for a look at you, so walk over there and let him have a good
     look at you," he ordered. We try to please our customers, you
     know."
         "Yeah, I know," she mumbled, strolling around the far end of
     the bar and walking toward me.
         Even in my stupor I could make out the disarrayed hair,
     pulled tightly back and upward into kind of a bun-like shape but
     with a pony-tail-like mane of hair emerging from the back of her
     head, swaying vicariously in contrapuntal rhythm to the jiggle of
     her hips. There were numerous stray strands of frizzled hair
     which stuck out in various directions and which allowed full view
     of the huge iridescent-green, double-circle earrings which
     dangled menacingly from her earlobes as she swayed toward me.
     The swaying was enough to make even a priest forget his vows and
     totally lose it. The pendulum effect of her hips as she
     approached me was strongly accented by the skin-tight
     iridescent-green pants she was wearing.
         In the state I had fallen into by then, a pair or dark
     sunglasses would have definitely helped. But, even closing my
     eyes didn't seem to have any effect; it was too late, the image
     had already burned itself into my mind.
         Brassy continued to walk toward me, swaying such that I was
     sure it was illegal, until suddenly stopping about three feet
     from me.
         "Hi there, Big Boy! I hear you were wanting to meet me."
         "Uh, uh,...yesh," I stammered.
         "Well, here I am. Disappointed?"
         "Uh, yesh...uh, I mean, no....I mean,... What was the
     queshion?"
         I started to say something else to her but before I could
     utter a sound, she turned around and bent over to pick up
     something off the floor or to fix one of the super-high,
     spike-heel shoes she was wearing--I couldn't tell which
     --when I was abruptly sidetracked by the cutout in each cheek of
     the shiny, skin-fitting pants she was wearing. The cutouts only
     served to enhance the perfectly round shape of her bottom side.
     I gasped for breath, unable to say a word, nearly choking on the
     swallow of Staggering Highlander I had just taken. After a long
     bout of coughing and spluttering, I finally managed to regain
     enough of my composure to breathe better.
         Through misty-optical eyes, which were transfixed by the
     enticing roundness of the rear view I was enjoying, I spied what
     appeared to be a dark, moving creature that was enjoying an "on
     skin" tour of Brassy's exposed right buttock.
         Being the gentleman that I was, I immediately jumped up from
     the barstool and lunged for Brassy, my hand at the ready to
     squash any multi-legged varmint that was emboldened enough to
     trespass upon the smooth, exposed skin of her derriere.
         My right hand closed upon the intruder more or less as
     intended; however, the momentum of my movement combined with my
     consumption of Highlander was more than my condition would allow
     me to control.
         "'Schyoosh me, Mish Brashy! I'm shorry. I wash tryin' to
     reshcue you from a monstrous critter I saw crawling on your
     lovely backside," I said, as we tried to untangle ourselves from
     each other in order to get up off the floor.
         "OOOOF! You big oaf! Why don't ya watch what yer doin'!" she
     scowled.
         "I wuz only trying to shave you from bein' bit by a great big
     bug crawlin' on you..." I began, trying to focus my eyes on her
     right cheek to determine if I had succeeded in slaying the
     monster.
         It was still there!
         "For your information, that is a tattoo of a,
     uh...er...ah..., a butterfly. Yeah, that's it. It's a butterfly
     that you were trying to kill! Instead, you almost killed me by
     attacking me. Or was that your intention all along?" she asked,
     with an icy glare.
         Even at such close range I couldn't see the tattoo clear
     enough to determine what it actually was. I just knew it looked
     like a bug to me.
         "Oh no, Mish Brashy, I wash only tryin' to help. You're too
     bootiful for me to ever think about doin' anythin' so
     ungen'lemanly. I'm shorry."
         Smiling broadly at my comment about her being beautiful, she
     abruptly changed her tone of voice. "Well, okay.  Thank you....I
     think."
         "My pleashure! Anytime you want someone to tackle you and
     drag you to the floor, jush let me know!" I said, finally
     managing to get to my feet, albeit swaying back and forth
     menacingly.
         Offering her my hand I said, "Pleashe, let me help you up,
     Mish Brashy."
         Warily eyeing me, she offered her soft hand as I attempted to
     pull her up.
         "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeee!" I yelled as I fell down again,
     barely missing landing on her.
         "Jusha minnit, Mish Brashy, while I get myshelf back up an'
     I'll help you!"
         "Stay away from me! You're in no condition to help
     anyone--not yourself, and especially not me!"
         "Kent! KENT! What are you trying to do to me? Get me maimed
     or killed? Who is this guy--another one of your buddies?"
         Looking over the counter, Kent answered her, "No, Brassy."
     He came in and asked for you. Said something about all the guys
     in the office where he worked had told him he should stop in and
     take a look at you. That's all I know."
         "Thanks a lot!" she mumbled, finally getting herself up off
     the floor, while glowering down at me.
         "Well, are you just gonna lay there all evening?" she
     demanded of me.
         "No, Mish Brashy. I'm gonna help you up off thish here floor
     ash I promished I would do.
         "I'm already up off the floor, thank you."
         Looking up at her with anesthetized vision I could tell that
     she was definitely not where I was.
         "Whatcha doin' up there? I can't help you get up if you're
     already up."
         "Get up, whoever you are!" she ordered, staring down at me.
         "Kirby's thuh name....Greg Kirby. Nishe ta meet you," I said,
     raising up my hand to shake hers.
         Hesitatingly, Brassy took my hand to shake it, but in my
     less-than-alert condition I grabbed her hand for her to help me
     up.
         "Noooooooooo!! Not AGAIN!" Brassy screamed.
         "Why, Mish Brashy!  Have you jush fallen for me?" I asked,
     looking at her with clouded vision and a misshapen smile.
         She raised her hand menacingly, but at the last second she
     decided against belting me. Instead, she smiled softly at me and,
     taking my hand, slipped herself under my shoulder, and together
     we managed to finally attain an upright position.
         "Thank you, Mish Brashy!" I said. "I hope you're all right."
         "I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Kirby. Just fine."
         "Thash fine! You're welcome!" I told her as I bowed deeply
     with a sweeping gesture of my hand. "I am at your shervish."
         "Thank you, again..." she replied cautiously.
         "You're mosht welcome! And, pleashe call me 'Greg.'"
         With Brassy's help I made it to a nearby table occupied by
     Herman Holtz, who continually glanced anxiously around the room
     and fondled some type of strange weapon laying on the table next
     to his right hand. He was in company with Eric Loeb and several
     others watching the impromptu "floor show." My eyesight was too
     blurry to distinguish one from the other, or to determine who the
     woman was wearing tassels and doing what appeared to be some
     strange type of dance.
         No one said a word to me during the long time I sat there,
     waiting for my mind, as well as my vision, to clear enough to
     attempt to head for home. Having thought it over as best I could
     under the circumstances, and under the influence of the
     Highlander, I decided that I liked the atmosphere of this
     place. And, despite her scowling at me, underneath those
     skin-tight, iridescent-green pants was, in my mind, a nice,
     shapely female--not to mention a lot of skin...and, it was nice
     skin at that!
         As my mind began to clear somewhat I started to realize how
     much I envied the 'butterfly' or whatever it was tattooed on
     Brassy's shapely rear.
         "Ummm....um!  Thash a nishe place to land!" I muttered.
         While I sat there trying to recuperate, I watched Brassy as
     she worked behind the bar with Kent or delivered drinks to a few
     select tables, at which were seated those whom I supposed were,
     most probably, regular patrons of Kent's Place.
         I sat there for a rather long time, and ordered another drink
     to down until time to head home. I lazily swirled the swizzle
     stick around and around before I guzzled it down. Sometimes it
     took me a little while to become accustomed to a new brew; and
     such was the case with the Staggering Highlander I had been
     swilling. But, before too long I was beginning to think--not to
     mention, see--more clearly than earlier.
         Sitting quietly and occasionally sipping my drink while
     watching Brassy swaying so illegally enticingly, I suddenly
     realized that this was the place I wanted to be: having a drink
     while enjoying the view of Brassy's behind as it swayed side to
     side as she walked here and there, and especially reveling
     in watching the musical-like staccato rhythm of her exquisite
     'frontal assets!'
         The revelation of having found a place to come to and relax
     when I needed someone to talk to or when I needed encouragement
     was most exhilarating. It suddenly dawned on me that, as in most
     bars such as Kent's Place, where patrons swilled to
     excess--indeed, were highly encouraged to do so--that inevitably
     there was an extremely buxom, shapely female employee (though
     maybe not quite as buxom or shapely as Brassy, whose sway was
     most probably against some law somewhere), I had, at last, come
     home!
          It was then that I realized, (which sometimes happens to one
     sooner or later when faced with difficult decisions or such
     trying times as I had had that day), that a good strong brew to
     quaff along with the nice scenery of a well-rounded caboose such
     as Brassy's to enjoy, proved the old adage that where there's a
     swill, there's a sway!
                                    END