Post by JACkory on May 6, 2008 13:56:11 GMT -5
Barry Leviticus...that was his name. DO NOT forget it.
Leviticus was slick. You should have seen him, all decked out in his Wranglers, Tony Llama boots, gaudy pink-and-blue striped Brushpopper and a bitchin' Stetson. His beard was trimmed in a fashion made popular by Keith Urban, who was one of his role models ("ole boy snagged up Nicole Kidman, what the fuck is that?"). He was meticulously, obsessively clean...the smell of expensive cologne wafted from him is subtle waves...Ban Ray shades hid his blue eyes, totally unnecessary in the all-pervading darkness of the Top Cat, his favorite beer joint.
What was it about the Top Cat that kept Leviticus coming back every night? Some patrons would say it was the jukebox. It was the only one in the county that didn't have some Kid Rock song on it. Or "Strokin'". Great Googly Moogly in Heaven, how he detested that song and all of the jackasses who filled the dance floor to line dance every time it came on. He was the slightest bit skittish, and every time those boot heels would smack on the floor it would make him flinch.
The bartender felt certain that his devotion to the Top Cat was contingent upon the two-for-one happy hour beer specials that were so popular with the factory workers coming home from their shifts, stopping in for a quick, cheap beer buzz. Barry generally availed himself of the bargain, but this was not the reason the Top Cat was his pick. Hell, he was more of a Jim Beam drinker. Maybe ole Jerry Galileo behind the bar didn't notice, but he didn't gulp down the brewskis with the same fervour as the rest. Galileo was selfish with the hooch, so the liquor and the service had nothing to do with Leviticus' decision to keep coming back to his establishment.
The most logical reason that Mr. Leviticus chose the Top Cat was because the local Johnny Laws turned a blind eye to all the pot smoking going down in the back yard behind the club. Every 45 minutes, when the band was on break, a thick cloud of pungent bud fumes could be seen rising into the sky, like incense from a burnt sacrifice. The cops sometimes drove around the Top Cat, patrolling for fights. There was no way they didn't see (or smell, for that matter) the marijuana smog and/or the crew of potheads huddled like hunchbacks, each one waiting greedily for the hogleg to be passed his way. John Law just didn't care. Business as usual for them. The chief of police was a big time supplier for the Tri-City area, so there was no way his flunkies were going to throw a monkey wrench into his action.
No, that was not it, either. Leviticus was not a stoner. He got high when the occasion warranted it (usually this was when an unorthodox sexual activity demanded a measure of relaxation that was beyond the ability of Mr. Beam). But he didn't need it, he didn't want it. His position on the matter had always been, "Toke up, boys. I don't care. No, thanks, moondog, you can eat that roach. I'm all good."
All the Top Cat losers would would be more than surprised to know that the ONLY reason Barry Leviticus kept comin' back to the Cat was...
The dart board in the back corner just across from the pool tables.
There was blood on it.
HIS blood.
It was a memory that haunted Leviticus, one that few of the party-hardy asshole regulars knew anything about. Anyone who may have had a clue about why his blood stained the bullseye had either moved on to neighboring states or to that great suburb in the sky. He'd made damn sure of that. Not even Jerry Galileo knew what had happened to them, and he was content to let sleeping dogs lie.
But the dart board was like a ghost to Barry. It was a spectre that he had fallen in love with. Some masochistic urge kept him bound to it's power to the point where he could do nothing to resist as it compelled him, day after day, to return to "the scene of the crime", as it were. It would lay it's trap within the toss of a dart. Once Leviticus was snared, having been drawn inexplicably to that dreaded parameter, another kind of dart, an invisible one, pierced his skull and injected the memory of that night in 1964.
He had just come back from the war, tired and ready for a life that didn't include the taking of other's. Vietnam left scars on the majority of American soldiers who fought so hard for their country...but none so deep and painful as the ones Barry Leviticus bore on his psyche. The reasons for this are better left unspoken, but the results play a huge role in what happened in the Top Cat bar on February 14, 1964. What could have been unforgettable round of darts between a grizzled, yet incredibly fresh and clean, veteran with a chip on his shoulder, and a cadre of biker hippies who were probably only there to cause trouble. The kind of trouble that biker bad-asses are famous for.
Barry was sitting at a table in the back, close to the dart board, with his arm around a cheap hooker he'd picked up earlier at the International House of Pancakes. She'd told him about four of her friends and a reservation they all had at the Cinderella motel. Leviticus was waiting for a visit from the chief-of-police. He hadn't planned on sticking around for very long once the chief had hooked him up.
But then one of those filthy, fat bikers sauntered up to him. Like all of his co-horts, he was as unkempt as a skid row bum and every single article of clothing he wore was emblazoned, somewhere or another, with the Harley-Davidson logo. Leviticus wouldn't have been surprised if the dude's underwear was Harley Davidson brand.
"Is this here your woman?" he asked with a gruesome leer in his eyes.
"It is for tonight," said Barry. "What's it to you?"
Biker thug said he thought it was very important to him, as he thought she was one of the most beautiful, angelic women he'd seen all night.
"I want her," he said. "I'll pay."
Barry took the toothpick he'd been gnawing on out of his mouth. He turned to the hooker and considered. The decision he eventually came to was inspired not so much by the qualities that his foe found in her, it was more a matter of her four friends making it a fivesome and the money already invested (not only in the prostitution fees but also for the rarely smoked dope he'd just sunk a couple of hundred dollars into).
"She ain't for sale. Now why don't you hop back on that horse and mosey on back to whatever pasture you came from?"
Biker thug didn't like that suggestion. He called over a couple of his friends, who flashed muscular arms tattooed with the popular Harley-Davidson logo. They stared at him with a meanness that rivalled the most vicious pit-bull ever primed to fight.
"Howzabout a round of darts?"
"I don't play darts," said Leviticus.
"Oh, yes, you do," said biker thug.
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
Biker thug swallowed a lump that had found it's way into his throat. He looked to his cronies and said, "Oh, well. I guess he's not up to a game of darts."
"Damn!" said the biker with the Harley-Davidson bandana around his head. "I wanted to play darts!"
No one was more surprised than Barry when they gathered their things and walked through the EXIT doors of the Top Cat. To a man, they hopped onto their Harleys, kicked 'em start, and drove off into a haze of dust.
He wasn't sure how he felt about the exchange. Part of him was relieved that it had not come to blows. But there was no denying that he was hoping for just that.
He sauntered over to the dart board, calmly considering what had just happened. It weighed heavy on his mind. What would have happened if he had taken them up on their offer of a dart game? Who would have won such a battle of skill and what were the stakes?
He took a sidelong glance at the whore whose friends were waiting for him just down the block in room 101. She was handsome, in her own hand-me-down way, but her honor had not been his to avenge.
They had not insulted him for his good looks, his refreshing cleanliness or the showy, if not somewhat tacky, wardrobe he was sporting. Even though he stood in sharp contrast with their slovenliness, they had not said a disparaging word to him about it.
In fact, none of them had done anything to upset him. The only one who even spoke to him, biker thug, had only desired an illegal transaction that he had already consummated. He had no right to be so possessive of a woman who only charged him 50 bucks and a quarter sack of weed. A true bargain when you throw in the four friends at no extra charge.
Basically, these guys only wanted to play darts. Sure, it was in bad taste to want to scag a slut straight from a paying customers arm, but it wasn't the first time that had happened. Barry Leviticus would be a liar if he told you that he hadn't accepted a similar offer when the price had been right (a 50% profit was more than enough to rid him of any traces of chivalry). On this occasion he had simply decided that his original plan was better than any he could have purchased with biker thugs money.
It all boiled down to this:
He had not wanted to play darts.
He stepped to the board. There were darts sticking out of the 14, 20, 15 and 5 point areas. Somehow this seemed significant. He pulled one of them out to inspect it (the one that had scored 5 points). Turning with his fingertips he reflected upon what had transpired. He came to the conclusion that the next time bikers showed up wanting to play a game he would indulge them.
Then, as he was just about to return the sharp projectile to the board, he accidentally pricked his finger. It didn't feel like much, but for some reason it bled profusely (as much as a finger can bleed, one might say).
"OUCH! Damnit to Hades!" he cursed, cramming the dart back into the board...
A small drop of crimson ochre welled up from the dart's end and fell like a teardrop down the circumference of the board. Lifeblood seed of a waif.
Every night since, Leviticus has returned. He's at the Top Cat tonight. He'll be there tomorrow night. Even if the music supplier puts a Kid Rock CD in the jukebox. Even if the line dancer's strokin' and stomping sets his teeth on edge. Even if Jerry Galileo decides that the two-for-one happy hour deal loses too much money to continue. Even if the DEA busts the chief and the Laws have no choice but to put the fear of God in the dopers.
Barry Leviticus will be there.
The blood draws him.
Leviticus was slick. You should have seen him, all decked out in his Wranglers, Tony Llama boots, gaudy pink-and-blue striped Brushpopper and a bitchin' Stetson. His beard was trimmed in a fashion made popular by Keith Urban, who was one of his role models ("ole boy snagged up Nicole Kidman, what the fuck is that?"). He was meticulously, obsessively clean...the smell of expensive cologne wafted from him is subtle waves...Ban Ray shades hid his blue eyes, totally unnecessary in the all-pervading darkness of the Top Cat, his favorite beer joint.
What was it about the Top Cat that kept Leviticus coming back every night? Some patrons would say it was the jukebox. It was the only one in the county that didn't have some Kid Rock song on it. Or "Strokin'". Great Googly Moogly in Heaven, how he detested that song and all of the jackasses who filled the dance floor to line dance every time it came on. He was the slightest bit skittish, and every time those boot heels would smack on the floor it would make him flinch.
The bartender felt certain that his devotion to the Top Cat was contingent upon the two-for-one happy hour beer specials that were so popular with the factory workers coming home from their shifts, stopping in for a quick, cheap beer buzz. Barry generally availed himself of the bargain, but this was not the reason the Top Cat was his pick. Hell, he was more of a Jim Beam drinker. Maybe ole Jerry Galileo behind the bar didn't notice, but he didn't gulp down the brewskis with the same fervour as the rest. Galileo was selfish with the hooch, so the liquor and the service had nothing to do with Leviticus' decision to keep coming back to his establishment.
The most logical reason that Mr. Leviticus chose the Top Cat was because the local Johnny Laws turned a blind eye to all the pot smoking going down in the back yard behind the club. Every 45 minutes, when the band was on break, a thick cloud of pungent bud fumes could be seen rising into the sky, like incense from a burnt sacrifice. The cops sometimes drove around the Top Cat, patrolling for fights. There was no way they didn't see (or smell, for that matter) the marijuana smog and/or the crew of potheads huddled like hunchbacks, each one waiting greedily for the hogleg to be passed his way. John Law just didn't care. Business as usual for them. The chief of police was a big time supplier for the Tri-City area, so there was no way his flunkies were going to throw a monkey wrench into his action.
No, that was not it, either. Leviticus was not a stoner. He got high when the occasion warranted it (usually this was when an unorthodox sexual activity demanded a measure of relaxation that was beyond the ability of Mr. Beam). But he didn't need it, he didn't want it. His position on the matter had always been, "Toke up, boys. I don't care. No, thanks, moondog, you can eat that roach. I'm all good."
All the Top Cat losers would would be more than surprised to know that the ONLY reason Barry Leviticus kept comin' back to the Cat was...
The dart board in the back corner just across from the pool tables.
There was blood on it.
HIS blood.
It was a memory that haunted Leviticus, one that few of the party-hardy asshole regulars knew anything about. Anyone who may have had a clue about why his blood stained the bullseye had either moved on to neighboring states or to that great suburb in the sky. He'd made damn sure of that. Not even Jerry Galileo knew what had happened to them, and he was content to let sleeping dogs lie.
But the dart board was like a ghost to Barry. It was a spectre that he had fallen in love with. Some masochistic urge kept him bound to it's power to the point where he could do nothing to resist as it compelled him, day after day, to return to "the scene of the crime", as it were. It would lay it's trap within the toss of a dart. Once Leviticus was snared, having been drawn inexplicably to that dreaded parameter, another kind of dart, an invisible one, pierced his skull and injected the memory of that night in 1964.
He had just come back from the war, tired and ready for a life that didn't include the taking of other's. Vietnam left scars on the majority of American soldiers who fought so hard for their country...but none so deep and painful as the ones Barry Leviticus bore on his psyche. The reasons for this are better left unspoken, but the results play a huge role in what happened in the Top Cat bar on February 14, 1964. What could have been unforgettable round of darts between a grizzled, yet incredibly fresh and clean, veteran with a chip on his shoulder, and a cadre of biker hippies who were probably only there to cause trouble. The kind of trouble that biker bad-asses are famous for.
Barry was sitting at a table in the back, close to the dart board, with his arm around a cheap hooker he'd picked up earlier at the International House of Pancakes. She'd told him about four of her friends and a reservation they all had at the Cinderella motel. Leviticus was waiting for a visit from the chief-of-police. He hadn't planned on sticking around for very long once the chief had hooked him up.
But then one of those filthy, fat bikers sauntered up to him. Like all of his co-horts, he was as unkempt as a skid row bum and every single article of clothing he wore was emblazoned, somewhere or another, with the Harley-Davidson logo. Leviticus wouldn't have been surprised if the dude's underwear was Harley Davidson brand.
"Is this here your woman?" he asked with a gruesome leer in his eyes.
"It is for tonight," said Barry. "What's it to you?"
Biker thug said he thought it was very important to him, as he thought she was one of the most beautiful, angelic women he'd seen all night.
"I want her," he said. "I'll pay."
Barry took the toothpick he'd been gnawing on out of his mouth. He turned to the hooker and considered. The decision he eventually came to was inspired not so much by the qualities that his foe found in her, it was more a matter of her four friends making it a fivesome and the money already invested (not only in the prostitution fees but also for the rarely smoked dope he'd just sunk a couple of hundred dollars into).
"She ain't for sale. Now why don't you hop back on that horse and mosey on back to whatever pasture you came from?"
Biker thug didn't like that suggestion. He called over a couple of his friends, who flashed muscular arms tattooed with the popular Harley-Davidson logo. They stared at him with a meanness that rivalled the most vicious pit-bull ever primed to fight.
"Howzabout a round of darts?"
"I don't play darts," said Leviticus.
"Oh, yes, you do," said biker thug.
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
Biker thug swallowed a lump that had found it's way into his throat. He looked to his cronies and said, "Oh, well. I guess he's not up to a game of darts."
"Damn!" said the biker with the Harley-Davidson bandana around his head. "I wanted to play darts!"
No one was more surprised than Barry when they gathered their things and walked through the EXIT doors of the Top Cat. To a man, they hopped onto their Harleys, kicked 'em start, and drove off into a haze of dust.
He wasn't sure how he felt about the exchange. Part of him was relieved that it had not come to blows. But there was no denying that he was hoping for just that.
He sauntered over to the dart board, calmly considering what had just happened. It weighed heavy on his mind. What would have happened if he had taken them up on their offer of a dart game? Who would have won such a battle of skill and what were the stakes?
He took a sidelong glance at the whore whose friends were waiting for him just down the block in room 101. She was handsome, in her own hand-me-down way, but her honor had not been his to avenge.
They had not insulted him for his good looks, his refreshing cleanliness or the showy, if not somewhat tacky, wardrobe he was sporting. Even though he stood in sharp contrast with their slovenliness, they had not said a disparaging word to him about it.
In fact, none of them had done anything to upset him. The only one who even spoke to him, biker thug, had only desired an illegal transaction that he had already consummated. He had no right to be so possessive of a woman who only charged him 50 bucks and a quarter sack of weed. A true bargain when you throw in the four friends at no extra charge.
Basically, these guys only wanted to play darts. Sure, it was in bad taste to want to scag a slut straight from a paying customers arm, but it wasn't the first time that had happened. Barry Leviticus would be a liar if he told you that he hadn't accepted a similar offer when the price had been right (a 50% profit was more than enough to rid him of any traces of chivalry). On this occasion he had simply decided that his original plan was better than any he could have purchased with biker thugs money.
It all boiled down to this:
He had not wanted to play darts.
He stepped to the board. There were darts sticking out of the 14, 20, 15 and 5 point areas. Somehow this seemed significant. He pulled one of them out to inspect it (the one that had scored 5 points). Turning with his fingertips he reflected upon what had transpired. He came to the conclusion that the next time bikers showed up wanting to play a game he would indulge them.
Then, as he was just about to return the sharp projectile to the board, he accidentally pricked his finger. It didn't feel like much, but for some reason it bled profusely (as much as a finger can bleed, one might say).
"OUCH! Damnit to Hades!" he cursed, cramming the dart back into the board...
A small drop of crimson ochre welled up from the dart's end and fell like a teardrop down the circumference of the board. Lifeblood seed of a waif.
Every night since, Leviticus has returned. He's at the Top Cat tonight. He'll be there tomorrow night. Even if the music supplier puts a Kid Rock CD in the jukebox. Even if the line dancer's strokin' and stomping sets his teeth on edge. Even if Jerry Galileo decides that the two-for-one happy hour deal loses too much money to continue. Even if the DEA busts the chief and the Laws have no choice but to put the fear of God in the dopers.
Barry Leviticus will be there.
The blood draws him.
