Part 4: Malbec and The Boy Racer (intro) (Fiction by Daniel Smallegange)

Drinks.

The place is rather eccentric, much like us group of four who gather here bi-weekly in weather fair or foul, during time of peace or during war, in times of pestilence even we remain, especially as we come here to be polluted and most certainly toxified. Tiki bar which seen better days we come to on schedule, at least when there is nothing better to do in our eventful, sorrowful, gleeful and most trepidatious lives.

The place is covered in dilapidation and dust and far too much bamboo. Walls are encrusted with fake vines and real vines. You can tell them apart as the ones that are real are all dead. Palms too in various degrees of failure, stuffed parrots and other tropical birds, a fake python and other notable snakes of merit look cheap and plastic. There is even a guerilla suit stuffed and mounted with a cigar sticking out its mouth. We thought the stuffed and fading lioness, which was once a real lioness, was too depressing and so Angie, the place's owner, he took her away. We sometimes still drink to her though, the old girl. Fake stalks of too bright green bamboo live with live ones not looking as hale, also palms and other things tropical cling to life amidst constructed rock ledges and waterfalls and pools.

Walls are built from greyed out and time stained bamboo back here in the patio area. There are groupings of giant goldfish and the like in aquariums filled with dirty water which have seen better days. They blink lazily and forgetfully as they swim on through the dim, eyes rotating on differing axles, mouths endlessly opening and closing. There is even a small shark and a turtle in the bigger aquariums. They do not seem to overly hate their lives here at the Tropical Jungle Tiki Bar and Grille, but seemed resolved to their lot and unafraid.

The turtle, Ricky, stares out sleepily from the murk of his tank, then clambers onto a shelf where he watches us imbibe and blinks slowly those glassy black eyes. He eats some carrot bits methodically and seems wise enough to judge that we are the lesser intelligent species. He winks and cranes a long neck, settles down and in for a snooze.

The place is almost always deserted except for a few locals who are generally of the lowest kind of scum and villainy known to humanity, which suits us to the core. Oh, and us. Eccentric us; four rogues of happenstance friendship and wild element.

Our table is usually made up of four as that is all that tend to fit. There is yours true, of sparkling eye and happy heart, whom you are acquainted with, sitting hunched slightly, sipping from a narrow straw and grinning, bending and unbending long legs under the table and my bad and cranky knees, tossing and flipping back and forth my pack of Luckies. Felix across in shorts and too large flip-flops which keep falling off, ill-shaven and dirty blonde bearded, Hawaiian shirt hung open with a tank top under with a tank on it, with them Egyptian symbol tattoos of his and pirate earrings, whom you've also met at least the peripheral of. His smile you are never sure of what to make as he chews a wedge of lemon and winces good, slams down a shot glass. Malbec and the Boy Racer are alright too. One dances like a gypsy, the other waltzes like a god. They are two-fucking-pees-in-a-pod. The latter one tall, lanky, his hands massive and well manicured, calm as right before the storm which be Malbec, the former, and his mate o' mates, tiny, bunched, hard wired and swift, fiery and short tempered, oh-so quick to flush with love or rage. The Boy Racer is tall and oddly made, somewhat peculiar, saggy skinned and pale, with large square and white front teeth, larger square glasses too so he might see the better. His smile though is generous and kind, mostly less you offend him highly in which case them massive hands would come in to play. Malbec is the shorter and thicker and seedier and greedier, but brainy and bright and full of mirth and glee. He shall abscond with your woman unless you are very careful or politely ask him not to. That is if your woman is into incredibly short swarthy types. He claims to have killed a man in a knife fight, but not a one of us believe him.

By: Daniel Smallegange