it was a grey haired bar. all the cocktail waitresses should have had grey hair. they had become a bit long in the tooth for the profession, but they had a place at the grey haired bar.
economics and sports were discussed over bourbon and beer. wine flowed from little bottles and breathed the air at the grey haired bar.
confession had left a bitter taste in my mouth. i had really expected to feel better afterward, but i guess i should not have confessed my bitter feelings about religion and god in general.
the bartender’s name was Vicky. she had back problems and a prescription for vicodin. i ordered a rusty nail and two vicodin.
“I’m out of vicodin” she said. “i have these little morphine pills. 15 milligram”.
i dont know anything about morphine.
“gimmee two.”
she gave me a handful.
“no charge. i don’t like them.”
i wrapped them in a napkin and stuffed them in my pocket.
i like my rusty nails light on Drambuie but i didn’t complain when Vickie put too much in the first one. she must have remembered on the next three. they were great.
i was on the Internet soon enough, looking at morphine pills. conventional wisdom had me squirting powdered pills mixed with water up my ass. I’m talking way up my ass.
‘PAST THE ANUS.”
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