The rain hadn't let up for days, and I tried to make out the road as best I could from behind my rapidly moving windshield wipers. I’d come from America, Miami, having relocated there, after having lived a couple years in the UK, and now was currently on my way up to Glasgow, from Bristol, to visit a few former colleagues. En route to Glasgow, I'd decided to stop by Manchester to see a couple friends, who were putting on some sort of an arts show at a local pub.
When I found the pub, thanks to my rental car’s GPS, there was only one (rather tight) parking space available nearby. Trying to squeeze into it, I bashed into a hot pink Smart Car that was covered in flowery stickers and peace signs. Stopping and exiting my half-parked car, stepping into the furiously wet elements, I noticed barely a scratch on my rental but did spot a nasty gash to the Smart Car’s tiny hood.
I thought about leaving a note, but paper wouldn't hold up too well in the pissing rain, so instead I took down the license plate, on my phone, and decided to get in touch with the owner later. First, though, I abandoned my failed parking spot and ventured down another block or two, soon discovering a much better and more spacious alternative.
Trudging through the rain, I made my way into the pub, which was full of smoke. Making my way through the packed crowd, way past fire marshal capacity, I found my friends sitting at a small table up front.
Hipsters, whacko artists, eccentrics, whatever you want to call them, they were decked out accordingly for the occasion. One wore a Scooby Doo costume, and the other wore a plaid mini-skirt, Dallas Cowboys cheerleader half-shirt, go-go boots, and tall WW1 type military top hat, with multi-colored feathers at its apex.
Both wore monocles, were sipping pints of Guinness, and were slamming down shots of Ukrainian vodka, while making catcalls at a sluggishly moving, 50ish burlesque dancer, who was awkwardly gyrating to a Justin Bieber song. The dancer’s large eyeglasses, frumpy figure, and granny panties were none too appealing.
Fortunately, though, she exited stage left soon enough, right as I started throwing down shots with Scooby. The crowd gave the dancer a tepid but polite applause, and onto the stage, through a cloud of smoke, mystically appeared a slightly overweight, however quite alluring woman, very tall, around 6'8, and maybe of age 37 or so.
She had ghostly pale white skin, and large breasts, I mean shockingly large (though not saggy) breasts that tested the laws of gravity in the tight fitting black low-cut blouse she wore. Her matching black microscopic miniskirt only extended to the very top of her juicy, pleasantly plump thighs.
It took me a second to notice, likely because of how entranced I was by her breasts and thighs, that she was strangely wearing only one high heeled black pump, and I also became aware of the fact that her flesh colored stockings had many, many runs and rips. Almost as if her legs had been attacked by an angry cat.
Scanning her body upwards, I discovered her clumpy, jet black hair was extremely disheveled, sort of like a dead, really furry cat was tied to her head. (Like maybe she'd killed the cat that attacked her legs and turned it into a hat or wig.)
Possibly more disturbing was that one of her eyes appeared much bigger than the other and her makeup was running, mascara tearing down her cheeks, lipstick jutting way too far past the corners of her mouth.
This freakish creature seemed to slowly hover like a ghost, through the nicotine mist, up to the microphone stand. She swatted away the smoke around her, made a hacking sound, and then launched into a bizarre, hushed voice, metaphorical poem about the moon. Every so often she'd pause and do these little weird swaying dances which involved an unhealthy amount of arm movement. At the end of her poem, she made an orgasm, moaning sort of noise, threw her lone shoe into the audience, stormed off stage, and ran into the men's bathroom of the pub.
Looking around, a fraction the crowd's audience appeared aghast, but a quiet stream of applause gradually built up into a raucous standing ovation. People in the crowd yelled out “brilliant!” and “encore!” and my friend Scooby broke into tears, saying she'd never been so moved. A couple people fainted.
The next act involved a tall bald man in overalls and pink flip flops, and a midget, in a Spiderman costume, sitting on a stool, quoting Shakespeare, while the tall bald man rotated between doing jumping jacks, casting voodoo spells on politicians, and making farting noises with his armpits. Their act didn't seem to be in unison, and the crowd wasn't paying much attention to them, except for cursing and booing every so often a politician's name was mentioned.
Scooby and I had resumed our shot slamming, when, from behind me, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the weird poet lady. Turning around, all I saw was her leaning over me, her tits hanging like two melons off a tree. They jiggled like jello as she breathed.
Before I could say anything, she pulled up a chair, sat down, picked up my remaining beer, chugged it down in one gulp, and threw the empty glass to the floor, shattering it. Then she looked me straight in the eyes for about a minute, staring at me in complete silence. As I cycled through possible salutations, she drew herself closer to my face and muttered between clenched teeth, in a thick Northern English accent, “Come back to my flat and shag me rotten.”
