“Okay, where is he?” Nate asked while he and Bryan DiMarco were walking inside the Southside dive bar.

“Well according to Sonja D, he was here about an hour ago, and wasn’t doing so good.”

“Is that the whole reason we rushed over here like it was an emergency? Sonja D? She’s been a drunk since like, sixth grade! Half the time she doesn’t know how to spell her own name…”

“Exactly. So, when she said Deacon was in a bad way, I was like…oh shit. Anyway, let’s just ask the bartender.”

“Good point.”

Nate pushed his way over to the bar. It was a seedy place, filled with seedy people, even for the Southside. Mostly everyone in there looked like a biker or a gangbanger, except for some of the females, who simply looked like they were “working”.

“Yo, my man!” Nate yelled over the loud rhythmic thumping of Ram Jam’s “Black Betty”.

The bartender was a middle-aged bald man wearing a Budweiser T-shirt and a tattoo of the Harley Davidson logo on his forearm. He sluggishly broke away from a conversation he was having with a six-foot black drag queen who appeared to be together with a four-hundred-pound white biker-type with a ZZ Top style beard. The bartender came over and rested his fists on the bar in front of Nate. He did not say anything, he simply drew his lips tightly together and stared at the blonde rocker.

“Hey, have you seen a dude about our age in here today? Long brown hair, leather jacket? Yea tall?” Nate raised his hand a little under his own head, roughly indicating the height of his missing friend.

“You his friends or somthin’?” The bartender shifted his weight, but otherwise gave no indication to answer his question.

Nate looked over his shoulder at Bryan DiMarco briefly. It was nice to know he had someone backing him up in the rough bar, but as his eyes covertly scanned the crowd, many of which were now openly staring at him contemptuously, Bryan DiMarco was less comfort than he would have imagined. And that was really saying something, as Bryan DiMarco was probably the toughest guy they knew besides Deacon. When God was giving out brains, he shrugged his shoulders and decided to give Bryan DiMarco toughness instead.

“Yeah man, something like that. Look, we got a call from someone that said he was drunk off his ass and she was afraid he was going to get himself in trouble. Have you seen him?”

The bartender snorted a disgusting ball of phlegm and spat it on the ground. He glanced over at the couple that he had been speaking with, who both began laughing hysterically. A few more people that had been listening also chuckled.

“I’ll make ya a deal. You pay fer da drinks he owes, and I’ll tell ya.”

Nate looked over his shoulder at Bryan DiMarco and tilted his head toward the bartender. Bryan DiMarco stared emptily back, and Nate pointed his head several more times at the waiting bartender.

“How much?” Nate finally asked.

“Twenny bucks and we call it even.”

“Pay him dude.” Nate’s eyebrows rose with purpose at his dense friend.

“You pay ‘im.” Bryan DiMarco returned.

“I’m busted man. C’mon. I’ll get you back when I can.”

Bryan DiMarco scowled at Nate but pulled out his wallet and slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. He stared into Nate’s eyes angrily the entire time. It was not the first time he had been talked into paying for the pretty boy. He had not been happy about it then and was not happy about it now.

“Well at least it wasn’t a total loss.” The bartender held the bill up to a light as if he expected it to be counterfeit or something. Nate glanced back at his neanderthal companion. As if Bryan DiMarco would be capable of such a sophisticated crime such as counterfeiting was laughable. Nate sometimes marveled at the fact that most of the time that he saw Bryan DiMarco he had the wherewithal to simply be wearing pants.

“Okay then, what happened, was he here?” Nate asked when the bartender did not immediately offer any more information.

“Yeah, the idiot. He was already pretty drunk by the time he got here. He had a few beers before getting into an argument with “Tank” over there…” The bartender thumbed down the bar at a three-hundred-pound tattooed man with a shaved head and pointed “devil” goatee. This man smiled back at the pair of young men who were now looking his direction. Tank was missing several teeth, and a thick cigar was resting in the gap. He puffed a cloud of thick rolling smoke into the air and wiggled his fingers in a feminine wave at the pair.

Nate shuddered and mumbled over his shoulder to his companion.

“Dude, if that guy there tries to rape me, I’m totally throwing you in the way.” Then to the bartender, “What happened to him?”

“He stood up and pissed on the bar and we threw him out. He sat out on the curb for about an hour before we saw him leaving with Professor Buttery Cheeks.”

“Huh?” Nate held up a finger. “Dude who the fuck is Professor Buttery Cheeks?”

“The neighborhood hobo. He lives out behind the abandoned factory over on 45th.”

Nate slapped Brian DiMarco’s chest and turned to leave.

“Come on man, let’s get the hell outta here before someone rapes and kills us.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“What’s your deal with being raped? Seriously, you think everyone wants to rape you? What’s up wit dat?”

“Come on, get real. Look at me man, I’m down to earth enough to recognize my painfully good looks. It’s a temptation. It’s not just a temptation to the ladies, this pretty face, it’s a temptation to the rapists too. But hurry up, I think I caught Hepatitis or something, I gotta get outta here.”

The two couldn’t exit the dive bar quick enough.

* * * *

“You’re my favorite person in the world right now Professor Buttery Cheeks. D’ya know that?” Deacon slurred while stumbling along astride his new friend.

“Whaddya think celery would get mad about? Huh? Spinach? Huh?” Professor Buttery Cheeks, who, despite the name did not look at all like an actual professor, replied. “Stinky ol’ peanut butter?”

“Yeah man, totally. I get mad at spinach too. Fuck Popeye’s ol’ stupid pipe-smokin’ ass! I hate spinach and I hate…”

Deacon tripped and fell on something and landed hard. His grasp on ambulation was tentative at best in his currently inebriated state, but he somehow managed to keep his hold on the bottle of Seagram’s Seven in his hand without it breaking.

“Hey man, you ok? Huh? I think you fell.” The old man wearing a filthy tattered grey overcoat stared down at him.

“Naw, I was just making sure gravity still worked.” Deacon got back to his feet and took another drink from the bottle before passing it to his companion. “It does, we’re all good.”

“They’re destroying too many cattle and oil just to make soap, huh? If we need soap when you can jump into a pool of water, and then when you go to buy your gasoline, my folks always thought they should get pop but the best thing to get, is motor oil, and, money. Huh? Might as well go there and, trade in some pop caps and, uh, tires, and tractors to blubberrump, car garages, so they can pull cars away from wrecks, is what I believe in. So I didn’t go there to get no more pop when my folks said it. I just went there to get a ice-cream cone, and some pop, in cans, or we can go over there to get a cigarette.” The old hobo rambled.

Deacon nodded solemnly and pulled a soft pack of crumpled cigarettes from his inside pocket and shared them with the old man who began dancing when he saw it. He winced when he tried to flick the lighter to light the end of the cigarette, his hand was still busted from punching a wall earlier.

“Here, do the…thing. The flicky deal.” Deacon handed the lighter over to the old man, who had to be as drunk as he was, but showed incredible dexterity when there was a hit of tobacco at stake. He deftly lit both cigarettes and handed the lighter back.

“Hey hey, gimme fie bubs!” Came a voice from the darkness. They both turned to see a toothless old black man come running over. Normally, when not in a drunken state, Deacon would have been extremely cautious when someone in a bad neighborhood came running out of the darkness, but in his current state, he simply watched with amusement.

Professor Buttery Cheeks laughed when he saw the other homeless man.

“It’s Stinky, huh? Dun worry young man, Stinky’s my friend, huh? He pulls baseballs in the summer but all of the summer light got spent in the sixties, now we only have the old summer light left, the kind that you norm’lly only see in the winter when the voodoo vampires are around. But now there’s no light left because it’s night. Huh?”

“Hi Stinky, why they call you Stinky?” Deacon asked the other old man.

“’Cause I pithed mah panths yung bub. Here, you wanna get in ‘dere ‘n get a whiff?” The old man put his hands on his hips and thrust his pelvis out in the young man’s direction proudly.

Deacon looked down at the old man’s worn, soggy, khakis.

“Naw man, I can smell it from here, I’m good.” Deacon needed to pinch his nose to keep his eyes from watering at that point.

“Gimme fie bubs. I gots some ‘a thith good thump rie here.” Stinky reached into his stinky pants pockets and pulled out a few small white stamps. Deacon looked at them and saw they were all printed with a picture of the Mad Hatter on them.

“Cool artwork. What is it?” Deacon asked.

“Fie bubs ‘n it’s yours yun man. I traded it from thome hobo down on 43rd threet fo’ a half a can o’ tuna I found in a dumpther. He got ‘em from thome college hippieth.”

“Wow, what a terrible deal. Who would trade these totally awesome stamps for some dumpster food?” Deacon asked.

Deacon reached in his wallet and only had two dollars left. His memory was foggy, but he swore he had more in there earlier. A lot more. Oh well. He handed it over.

“Put it on yo’ tongue.”

Deacon did this, and then took a swig from the bottle.

“Ai’ght den.” The toothless black man smiled and waived his hand.

“Where you goin’? We’re partying over here!” Deacon passed the bottle and pointed at his feet. “Right here.”

“I ain’ gun nowhere. You goin’ fo’ a ride dough.”

“Huh?” Deacon wanted to ask more, but he didn’t get a chance.

Suddenly a meteor shower burned across the sky, which turned into hot pink streamers and a number of dolphins appeared. The dolphins swam by him and he grabbed hold of one of their fins. They swam away with him, leaving a trail of rainbows behind them.

“This is the best day ever!” Deacon yelled as the dolphins flew him away into the sky.

As his feet left the ground, his entire body began tingling with sensations. One of the dolphins, a blue one, blinked large cartoony eyes at him and giggled.

“Hola senior. My name is Oscar. What’s your name?” The dolphin spoke in a thick Spanish accent.

“Oscar the flying blue dolphin? This is freakin’ amazing! I’m Deacon!”

“Senior Deacon. Hold tight. We’re going to Nigeria. You’re gonna die!”

The dolphin began laughing hysterically into the night in a voice that sounded very much like his own with a Spanish accent.

* * * *

“Is that him?” Nate pointed to an empty field next to an abandoned building under the “L” train that rumbled noisily overhead.

“Looks like it.” Bryan DiMarco nodded back. They both ran over quickly.

They confirmed it as they neared the body lying in the wet grass. It was cold and damp and sleeping out in the open could not have been good for anyone’s health. It was Deacon, and he was passed out cold. He smelled terrible and was missing his boots.

“Yo, Deacon! You still alive man?” Nate was genuinely worried, for the awkward position that he found his friend lying in did not look natural.

Deacon stirred and Nate exhaled a deep sigh of relief. He reached down to help his friend to his feet.

“C’mon man. There you go.”

“Nate?” Deacon looked up and squinted his eyes. He appeared to be smashed out of his mind, but it was good that he was responding.

“Yeah man, it’s me. Look, Bryan DiMarco’s with me.”

“Really? Bryan DiMarco?” Deacon looked past Nate to see the other guy who was coming over to help support the barely functioning human, who could not walk on his own volition.

“Dude.” Bryan DiMarco nodded as he slung Deacon’s other arm over his neck.

“Yo, fuck you, Brian DiMarco. I hate you so much, you’re the reason God made the middle finger.”

Deacon tried to throw off his two supporters but was too inebriated.

“C’mon, I wanna fight you and your stupid face, Bryan DiMarco.”

“Shut up idiot.” Bryan DiMarco returned sullenly.

“We’re gonna get you home, man.” Nate said. “We’ve been walking around looking for you in this cold for like four hours.”

“Did you find Senior Oscar?” Deacon asked numbly.

“Who’s that?” Bryan DiMarco asked.

“Fuck you Bryan DiMarco, I’m not tellin’ you shit.” He then turned with a wide grin towards his other side and answered Nate. “Oscar the Dolphin. He’s my new friend. Though I’m pretty sure he wants to kill me.” Deacon frowned and looked down. He noticed he was now being completely carried by his two friends. He wiggled his socked feet. “Also I think he took my shoes.”