From last Monday:
The dwarf begins to turn clockwise. And then to spin, faster and faster until he abruptly changes direction and twirls counterclockwise, less fast, slower, changing shape until…
A rather large extremely unkempt man stands motionless looking at me, disbelieving (even more than I) with dull if mesmeric eyes. He has long—very long—dark hair, parted at the center, falling far below his shoulders, paired with an equally long beard and mustache, rabbi-style, as if never trimmed, littered with what appears to be decaying food. He is wearing a long black buttoned robe of a coat.
And dare I say he smells like goat.
This hulking figure opens his mouth and unleashes a torrent of raucous verbiage, none of which is comprehendible to me—other than he doesn’t seem to be thrilled to be here, based on the anger in his face as eyes.
When I don’t respond to whatever he’s asking—or demanding—he throws his arms with exasperation into the air and turns his attention to the shelves of booze behind the bar.
His eyes begin to twinkle and he holds his hands in prayer, displaying bitten blackened fingernails, then whispers something that sounds like “God’s own remedy.”
Such is his strength he effortlessly lifts himself over the bar and holds up several bottles to inspect their labels, trying, it seems, to discern their meaning. He finally settles on a bottle of vodka, as if he recognizes the name Smirnoff, pulls off the cap and takes a colossal slug.
Only then does he finally smile. I am struck by his teeth, more akin to blackened stubs.
I attempt to say something but he holds up the palm of a very grimy hand to shush me down as he takes another huge swig from the bottle. Then he leans forward over the bar, his hypnotic eyes staring directly into mine. And… belches. A gargantuan eructation that produces a disgusting odor, after which he finishes the second half of the bottle in a series of gulps, Adams apple bobbing, vodka dripping out the corners of his mouth, dribbling down his beard.
He looks at me and smirks—then eructs a long drawn out whistle of fart that lasts about thirty seconds, during which he seems to fade into transparency as if the release of noxious fumes has deflated him into… BANG!
A cloud of smoke dissipates to reveal the dwarf standing on the bar, this time wearing a blue polyester leisure suit charred with ash and a stovepipe topper upon his head, also charred. He is holding a cigar, shaking his head in dismay, and says, “Should have known better than to light a match with that flatulent beast around.”
“Who, what the hell?” I ask.
“Grigori Rasputin. The question isn’t what the hell? The question is, did you learn anything?”
“You mean, like, how to drink a whole bottle of cheap vodka in less than a minute?”
“Oliver Reed, Peter O’Toole and Richard Harris could have taught you that—wanna meet them?”
“Not really.”
The dwarf relights his cigar and puffs on it, lifts his head and blows smoke toward the ceiling. “You aren’t exactly the most stimulating company.” He one-eyes me. “But I’ll accept some of the blame for that. I misled that mad monk. It wasn’t hard because he has only four modes of existence: very drunk, completely drunk, dread drunk and overcome with drink.” The dwarf chuckles. “He was expecting to show up in a monastery full of nuns wanting to be rejoiced.” He winks with an evil grin. “Geddit?”
“No.” I shake my head, unamused. “I don’t get any of this.”
“It means without sin there is no repentance. It also means I fucked up. Rasputin speaks Russian, a coarse peasant dialect, and you don’t. Which means he doesn’t count, just an aberration.”
“You kidding? This is all an aberration.”
The dwarf shushes me down with his one free hand. “You’d probably like to meet someone less overbearing. Someone wimpy and cerebral. Yeah, I know just the dude—can you handle morose?” He hops off the bar onto a stool and spins into a tornado until…
…next Monday.
Greetings Robert,,,You imagination never ceases to amaze me, I'm guessing you must have Technicolour Dreams !! i hope all is good with you , wishing you all the best!
Andy