THE BOUNCER REVOLUTION
Fuckin hicks. Slimy hicks from Yonkers, you know? Have no fuckin manners
at all, the rats they are. Now I been bouncin a whole fifteen years in this
area, never saw such fuckin rats in my whole life. Hick rats from Yonkers,
I tell ya. They come into our bar, The Constitution Bar And Grille, these
lousy schmuks and overpriviledged nogooders and pieces of shit, and stare
at me like fuckin losers when I ask for their ID. The schlong just mumbles
some thin incoherent, bein pissed drunk as he was; from right up the
street, must be. And the bitch comes out with, "We’re here just for the
food." Clever, very clever. "Yeah, like your boyfriend reads’em Playboys
for just the articles," sez I. She is all flushes and blushes, the clever
one. And her bf starts yellin, "How dare you insult my sister!" Sister, my
ass. Some sister, that lowlife slut. I know her from earlier conflict
situations on the job, when customers have turned combative in response to
a sound, legit request by a bouncer or the management. "Look, young fella,"
sez I, "call her your sister if you get off on incest, but this joint is
for patrons with ID’s. No ID, no patron, comprehend?" I know how to handle
a situation. I was solid calm the whole time durin said encounter. Now this
sucker is yellin again, "How dare you, you redneck!" Callin me a redneck,
now, that’s somethin. That unbelievable schmuk. And then he grabs me by my
bar patch. Now that’s a very stupid move to make on a professional like me,
if you know what I’m sayin. Seein as I carry a third-degree black belt in
karate-do and am also a trained Brazilian jujitsu and small-circle jujitsu
stylist, so I know how to grapple and how to fight in close and how to
wrestle the guy to the ground when I need to. So, as I was sayin, the young
punk lays his dick-smellin hand on my bar patch. And that already falls
under the clear and present subtitle, right? So I haymaker him into the
wall and follow up with a ridgehand technique to his throat. He chokes a
bit and stumbles the fuck about. Next thing I know the young bitch is tryin
to slap me. I catch, twist her wrist, and as she arches her back away I
sidekick her into the jukebox. She had no clue I coulda killed her with a
fork, or somethin, if I wanted to. Anyway, sparks go flyin, flyin, flyin
all round like you see it in the movies. And that nasty smell. Then we
scrape’em off the floor and walls and just stuff’em out the door. Our
problem is over. My buddy has already notified the police. The police, they
take over from here.
Yes, this is the police. This is the police. We are out here, on the
scene. In the snow. We are your red and blue lights. I read you loud and
clear. We often pick up outside the bars, where the bouncers leave off. You
are under arrest. Middlesex Police. We Supply Our Customers With The Right
To Remain Silent. Do, re--do, re, mi--si. It’s only logical, mister. Hold
it. Hold it right there and shut up. Put’em up where I can see’em. Nice and
easy. You are under arrest. We are firmly in control, ready to advance.
Perimeter secure repeat perimeter secure. Situation under control. Now
listen carefully. Hold your breath and listen carefully. Slide over the gun
with your foot and listen carefully. We are cops! Drop your pants!
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