Warning: The following blog post contains an insufferable amount of vulgar language. It is also long as shit.
You have been warned.
6:00PM on a Friday @ The Vodka Pastor / 0 Drinks Consumed
“Hey, yes, just start me with the usual.”
“Blue Moon and two shots of Jameson, right?”
“You got it.”
It seems like I got here rather early, even if I was punctual. See, the occasion was that one of my best high-school buds, P**, was flying back into town for a weekend to visit. It’s been years since I’ve seen P**, mostly because he became a deadbeat, but won the lottery in 2017, and decided to move to North Carolina, of all places. His reasoning was loosely based on statute of limitations and tax breaks?
Anyways, I caught wind of his homecoming when he started a mass group chat on iMessage, where everyone decided on the Vodka Pastor as the locale for the night. This particular sports bar had a very antiquated feel to it, in the most endearing sense. It was a charming, niche spot where the tables were oaky in texture, the drinks were always satisfactory, and the music was always upbeat. There was about 20-or-so people in that group chat that collectively agreed on a 5pm link-up.
So where the fuck was everyone else at?
“This shit always happens… They tell me a time, I show up exactly on time, and end up waiting hours for these people. Like what’s the point of even giving a time if you’re not going to abide by it?”
The bartender expressed her sympathy by pouring up a shot for the both of us.
“Listen man, I’m not even supposed to be here right now. I don’t like dealing with the cunts that pour in after 7pm, especially on Fridays. The one douchebag that had tonight’s shift called out because he was feeling ‘sick’, but he must’ve forgotten that he has me on close friends on the Gram, because if you’re sick, you wouldn’t be chugging fucking Blue Ribbon in the Poconos. I mean, who drinks that hillbilly shit anymore anyways? And the other two douchebags that are working with me tonight have been trying to get with me since I started working here. I’ve told them no a million times, but they don’t get the hint. “
I grabbed the second shot glass, and motioned to her to join me.
“Cheers to douchebags that drink crappy lagers, and late assholes.”
7:00PM on a Friday @ The Vodka Pastor / 4 Drinks Consumed
It turned out that I actually have much in common with the bartender. In the past, our conversations would last 5 minutes, and it would revolve around either current news, or our respective ventures. However, she would always get distracted by other customers, and my friends would have always arrived by then. But, for the last hour, we engaged thoroughly in topics such as class warfare in the modern age, what would happen if Chic-Fil-A were to be open on Sundays, and favorite colors. The colors unexpectedly took up most of our time, since the bartender held very strong opinions on the matter.
“How many times do I have to tell you that black is NOT a color, but rather, a shade?”
“You’re being all technical about it. Black is very much a color, and I’m about to prove it.”
“Go ahead.”
“What color is your hair?”
“It’s very clearly black. Wait.”
“Exactly.” I smirked as she walked away. There’s nothing wrong with having black as your favorite color, right?
Right?!
She came back with a brand new bottle of Jameson, and poured up yet another round of shots.
“I’ve never seen this witty, chatty version of you before. What have you done with the real M***?”
I geeked out a smile, and replied, “I don’t know, but this version is about to get a whole lot chattier with this shot right here.”
As we laughed and took the shot, my sixth sense suddenly kicked in, and then I heard it:
“It’s the motherfucking Burgundy Bandit himself!”
Ah fuck.
8:00PM on a Friday @ The Vodka Pastor / 6 Drinks Consumed
The Burgundy Bandit was a nickname that P** coined for me back in senior year. The history behind this is actually quite simple: on a dare, trying to prove my badassery, I shoplifted a tuxedo from Prato when we were teens, and it just so happened to be burgundy. Big fucking deal.
This nickname, along with everything else teen-related, was lost in high school folklore, but here we are, years later, with the same mindset apparently.
“I can’t believe you STILL remember that. Jesus, man, what was it, 7 years ago?”
P** shrugged.
“To be honest, I completely forgot about it too, but you’re the one that chose to wear a burgundy button-up today, of all days, so I simply thought you were embracing your roots, buddy.”
I looked down and realized my luck in choosing today to wear this Narcos-esque shirt I got from Scotch and Soda.
“P**, where is everyone else at?”
He looked around at the vast emptiness of the bar, and then points at the door.
“There they are.”
An entourage of folks start pouring in through the heavy front door. An assortment of characters from my past and present were amongst the mix.
“We’re fresh off dinner, dude. Everyone was wondering where you were at,” said one of the characters, who went by the name of Z**. She was also known as P**’s bodacious girlfriend. This was actually my first time meeting her too.
Dinner? What dinner? Oh fuck, I’m feeling a bit tipsy. Damn it, bartender. Wait, fuck, what was her name again? She told me when I walked in, and even made a joke about how I never asked her for her name. It’ll show up on the tab, fuck it.
I snapped out of it and questioned the dinner. P** then pointed out that it was a last minute decision.
“No hard feelings, Bandit. We didn’t want you stealing the crimson red napkins from the restaurant. You know, knowing your history and all.”
This guy had nerve! But before I could say anything back, the bartender called me over.
“I see your friends have arrived, Mr. Bandit.” She grinned as I gave her a look of disapproval regarding the name.
“Listen, if you start calling me that, you won’t be seeing me around anymore,” I responded sarcastically.
She winked at me and replied, “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
And then, out of the blue, P** interrupts again.
“So, bitches, are we doing shots or what?”
9:00PM on a Friday @ The Vodka Pastor / 9 Drinks Consumed
“So tell me, M***, what have you been up to these days?” asked Z**.
“Well, you know, I run a Toyota dealership off Route 90. If you ever need any help with finding a car-“
“No one cares about the fucking Toyota dealership, Bandit. Let’s hear the juicy stuff. Who have you been fucking? What laws did you break this week? Some of your old conquests are here tonight, go fuck some shit up with them.”
I looked at P** with a face of annoyance, but he wasn’t wrong: 2 of my exes came out to the Vodka Pastor that evening, both of which things ended on less-than-amicable terms. Surprisingly, one of them greeted me when she walked in, letting bygones be bygones. However, I’d rather lodge a bullet deep into my temple than even begin to be civil with the other one.
“You know what your problem is, Bandit? You’re too soft, and you’re too damn sober. Where’s that pretty bartender of yours? Ask her for another round, on me.”
I was a bit skeptical about another round for 2 reasons: 1. I had already consumed way too many shots up to this point. I needed to stay afloat if I was to survive the night.
And certainly more important: 2. This cocksucker only likes drinking vodka. Who the fuck takes shots of VODKA? To top it off, mixing vodka and whiskey? No thanks.
Z** came to my defense.
“P**, let the poor chap live. If he wants to take it slow, let him take it slow. As for you, M***, you take your sweet little time. Don’t let the big bad man scare you.”
As soon as Z** finished talking, P** urgently pulled me to the far side of the bar, citing a ‘little surprise’.
“First of all, Bandit, let me apologize for my girl. She’s into this weird fetish shit where she talks to me like I’m a little boy. I feed into it, of course, because it’s hot as shit in the bedroom. Like she pretends to breastfeed me, spank me, etcetera. BUT, it’s starting to seep into everyday life. Like, don’t talk to my friends with your fetish voice. That sound is reserved for me and me only, you hear me, Bandit?!”
As I stood there in amazement, trying to understand what was happening, he continued:
“But anyways, my old contact for blow was still around, and when he heard I was back home, he gifted me this.”
P** pulls out a ziploc bag that appeared to have baking soda in it. I wished it was.
“This is fucking premium shit right here. Not even Escobar can get his hands on this product. I mean, not that he can, because you know, he’s dead and stuff.”
“P**, I am NOT doing coke with you! What is the matter with you? That big ass bag is like 15 years in prison, easy.”
“For starters, it’s more like 10. And that’s IF I get caught. But Big Bad P** doesn’t get caught. I know half the cops in this county, and trust me, they don’t give a fuck about a rich white man just trying to have fun. It’s a real sketchy society, I tell ya. Besides, I haven’t seen you in so long, man. Where’s your sense of camaraderie? You’re dressed the part, for fuck’s sakes.”
Astonished, I kept entertaining this conversation to see how deep into the abyss we could possibly descend.
“Since when does possession of a lifetime in jail’s worth of cocaine equate to camaraderie?”
“Alright, Bandit. I tell you what: you do ONE line with me, and I’ll never call you Bandit again. I’ll strike it off the record forever. The history books will never know the likes of the madman known…. as the Burgundy Bandit.”
The irony of this one calling ME a madman. But one line to never hear this blasphemous nickname again? I was all game.
“God damn it, fine. Let’s do it. Bathroom in 5?”
“Bathroom? What the fuck are we going to the bathroom for? I’m not asking for a handy, Bandit, Jesus. No, I’m gonna sprinkle the stuff right here and have Z** be lookout.” P** started pouring out copious amounts of the drug on the table we were presently situated at, while I started to freak out internally. “Z**, can you come here honey?”
“Coming, my sweet boy!”
I had to distance myself from this train wreck. This guy has lost his marbles beyond description. I was on the verge of calling Narcotics Anonymous on this psychopath, when another familiar face reared its ugly head.
“M***, is that you? Wow, it is SO nice to see you! How long has it been, 2 years since you went on your little tantrum? And you’re doing blow with this piece of work? How fascinating! Like I said, some things never change, and you still continue to be a piece of shit. Amazing!”
THAT was K****, the ex who I’d take a bullet to the temple for in order to have her cease to exist. A catch-22, if you may. For context, she cheated on ME, MULTIPLE times, while we were ENGAGED, and I was only a piece of shit in her eyes because I aired her out on social media for being a conniving whore, thus ruining her image. She did me filth, but I wasn’t scared of getting my hands dirty as well.
That’s when P** took the liberty of speaking on my behalf:
“You don’t get to talk to the Bandit like that, you beast. Who even invited you anyway? You’re obviously a lonely, self-loathing individual who takes out their misgivings on hard-working people like Bandit here. Matter of fact, why don’t you take your lowly self and go be with the rest of the troll people under the bridge?” P** exclaimed excitedly as he started to edge up the powder. Z** suddenly stepped to K**** swiftly.
“Now you listen to me, and you listen to me good. You have about 10 seconds to get the fuck out of here before I break glass on the floor, and drag your scrawny ass across it,” said Z** as she stood a mere inch from K****’s face
I may have had a change of heart for these people.
“Whatever, enjoy overdosing, you fucking losers. I have better places to be anyways. Have a miserable life, pricks.” K**** clutched her purse and stormed out of the bar, just like that.
“Yeah, better places, like the fucking corner, you thot!” yelled Z** as me and P** broke out in hysterics.
“See, that’s why I love Z**”, said P** as he snorted a line off of the table. “Her ferocity is untamable, and she gets me, you know? She fucking gets me. They don’t make ’em like this in Jersey, bro. I can get you one if you want.”
“Two peas in a pod,” I nervously replied as P** handed me a rolled up $100 bill.
“It’s your turn, Bandit. Or should I say, M***.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. It was time to put the Burgundy Bandit to rest, once and for all.
10:00PM on a Friday @ The Vodka Pastor / 12 Drinks Consumed
“And that is why some may see collectivism as a cult, although the Amish aren’t a great example of this due to their seclusion from society as a whole.”
The group of young adults simply nodded in agreement as I continued ranting.
I’ve only done coke a few times before in my life, and this time was definitely the best overall. I started engaging with patrons all over the bar like if I was a rockstar. I felt amazing, all-encompassing of a deity.
Something was quite off, however. I lost my drunken edge.
Did it take a personal day? Or a backseat to the navigator known as cocaine? It didn’t matter, because I was craving more, and more was around the corner.
“God damn, M***, this is like your 5th bump in the last 30 minutes! Slow down there, bub,” P** suggested as he dug his car key into his coke bag to set me up for a bump.
“Listen man, off that magical powder, I’m Shakespearean. Will Hunting incarnate. Untouchable mentally.”
“But physically, you’re annoying. Just knock back a few brews and shots, you’re way too hyper right now. Last thing I want is for your little feeble heart to explode. Use it wisely, and go chop it up that bartender. My god, she’s fire. If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re allergic to pussy, the way you’re avoiding her.”
Feeble? Oh I’ll show you, you peasant. But he had a point, because my heart rate, according to my Apple Watch, was 140 BPM. I felt an uneasy sweat settling in as well.
“Oh, and one more thing, M***: do not overestimate the power of the stuff. You’re not fucking Hercules after a dose or 10. Don’t rapid fire drinks in your system, because you think it won’t affect you whatsoever, and then, it all comes crashing down on you like the wrath of a thousand Spartans.”
I rolled my eyes at P**, but he finalized his concerning speech with a pat on my shoulder, and a wish of good luck.
Whatever. He’s overreacting. He wouldn’t know how awesome I felt if it sucked him off in an SUV after Sunday breakfast at iHop (allegedly his favorite pastime with Z**).
I made my way back to the bar, and hailed the bartender down. It was finally time to seal the deal.
12:00AM on a Saturday @ The Vodka Pastor / 20 Drinks Consumed
Fuck, what am I doing in the bathroom? How did I end up here? My head is going a mile a minute. Did my life just take a break for an hour? The last thing I remember was ordering a round of vodka shots. Wait, did I throw all of that up? In the urinal too? Note to self: never mix alcohol with alcohol.
And I got some on my shoes! I just got these from Aldo yesterday! Motherfu-
“Hey M***, stop being a pussy and come rail this line.”
Who said that? Wow, it’s T**** from chemistry class. When did he get here? Haven’t seen that guy since graduation. Since when does he do drugs? And wasn’t he the valedictorian? I’m certain he was a dweeb, and now he’s snorting coke? How the youth have devolved.
“Bro, just because I was valedictorian, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to party. I missed out on all those years because my corporate asshole of a dad wanted what was ‘best for me’, even if it meant stripping me of all liberties until I was 21. That’s why mom divorced your bitchass, and that’s why all your assets got repossessed by the IRS after that tax fraud you tried to pull, you sucker. Fuck you, dad. I CAN HAVE FUN TOO BITCH!”
That was extremely dark, wow. I don’t even know if he’s talking to me at this point. And did I say the dweeb thing out loud? I must be losing it.
“Re-fucking-lax man, damn. I’m just trying to process what’s happening right now. I’m pretty drunk right now, and I haven’t seen you in years, is all.”
T**** accepted the response with a weird embrace.
“We were just talking outside? Never mind that. I missed you like hell. You were one of the nice ones. Now come on, we need to get back out there. The ladies are waiting for us.”
This guy looks, sounds, and talks just like McLovin. I really want to laugh right now, but free drugs, so fuck it.
I hope I didn’t say that out loud again.
There it is, right on the sink. What a fat fucking line. Am I ready for this? I can’t believe he’s using a golden vacuum to snort this shit. Those are the markings of a future rehab patient. No matter, because this vacuum is fucking cool. I hope it works as good as it looks. Maybe I’ll steal that too. Alright, here we go.
…
…
…
That’s the stuff! Welcome the fuck back, captain! Your crew awaits your presence.
I feel great, but different, no? This can’t be from the same batch as befor- WHY IS THE RESIDUE ORANGE?
“T****, why is this coke ORANGE?!”
Is he LAUGHING? Why are you LAUGHING??
“Sir, that substance that you so willfully consumed without a conscionable objection, that dust that you just sniffed through your hairless nostrils, is widely known as methylenedioxymethamphetamine. Its original shape was that of a SoundCloud tablet, but where’s the fun in that?”
Metham-what? Did this bozo just turn me into a fucking methhead?
I sobered up so quickly.
“Was that fucking meth, you lunatic?!”
T****, startled by my tone, remedied the situation.
“No, bitch. It’s ecstasy, with a dash of the white girl. No wonder you failed all those tests in basic chemistry. I’m out of here.”
As T**** walked out, I stared at myself in the mirror for awhile. My eyes were bloodshot from all the puking, but I felt so much better now that I knew it wasn’t crystal meth. And I felt strangely sober, for real this time.
But I spoke too soon, because I started to feel the butterflies.
1:00AM on a Saturday @ The Vodka Pastor / 20 Drinks Consumed
Thank goodness for the bartender. She’s been blessing me with drinks all night. Thank goodness for a separate tab too, because these hooligans would be the type to put it on me, a moderately successful entrepreneur. Yes, owning a car dealership counts as entrepreneurship. Fuck you. I really like her. Does she like me? I hope so. I wish I knew her name, the bartender. But is it just me, or have I not seen her in a few hours? Hold that thought, because this song is fucking jamming. It’s a techno song, or whatever you call that genre. Who’s on the jukebox? Oh yeah, it’s that weird EDM chick from back in the day. She invited me to a rave once, but I said no. I wonder why I said no. Andddd she’s kissing another girl as I speak. I mean, as I think. This molly is super strong. Just as strong as me. I could probably beat anyone here in a push-up contest. I’ll bet on that. What song is this? It’s wildly riveting. Look at me, using big words again. I guess ALL drugs bring out a scholarly side of me, not just cocaine. Haha, that kid just slipped and spilled his Jack and Coke on his white tee. That’s why I wear burgundy, assholes. THE BANDIT IS HERE.
Time to bust out some moves. How do you dance to this shit again? I see the lesbians fist-pumping and swaying. Is that a thing now? Sheeeesh, these new-age music loons are something else. Let me try it. Trying it. Okay, this isn’t so bad. I can get used to this. The lesbians started shuffling, so I shall do the same. I’m actually quite decent at this. Shit, that group over there is reciprocating the movements. Did I start a movement? Andddd they’re joining me. I’ve never met these heads before, but I welcome them with open arms. My arms are literally open right now. Group hug? Yup, this is a group hug. Let me find out what song this is. Shazam, do your thing. The results are in, and they’re saying heads will roll. Heads will roll. HEADS WILL ROLL.
Now we’re talking. Everyone is moving. The heat is going way, way up. Is this what global warming feels like? What an exquisite feeling this is. I fucking love ecstasy. I love everyone in here, actually. Do they love me? That guy is LITERALLY doing a headstand in the middle of this sea of bodies. What a time to be fucking alive. I sure do curse a lot when I’m inebriated, huh? Actually, no, I curse a lot when I’m sober too. Potty mouth, you. Who is this broad dancing on me? I have no clue, but she has quite the body. I will call her D***. Can’t see her face, but like they say, no face, no case. What could make this even better? More drinks? MORE DRINKS.
“Yes, I would like to buy everyone in my immediate vicinity a shot. These are good people, and they deserve it.”
“Do you have a tab open already?”
Fuck, it’s not the bartender. It’s one of those creepy cunts that the bartender works with. But I mean, this works out, because the bartender didn’t see D*** grinding on me mere moments ago. I’ll give this knobber a new card then.
“Just start a new one and close it out. And make them all Clase Azul shots.”
“You got it.”
This guy seems cool. No, fuck that, the bartender told me he was creepy. He doesn’t look it, but fuck him regardless. I want to punch his face in now. I can only imagine what the other one looks like. Andddd there he is. He ACTUALLY looks creepy as fuck. I should punch his face in. I think I will. He’s coming this way. Here’s my chance. I –
“Here’s 20 shots of Clase Azul, compliments of this man right here.”
Fuck, he pointed at me. Everyone’s clapping and cheering. I can’t incite a riot now; It’ll kill the entire vibe. I’ll just stiff the guy then, no biggie. The tab must be like $200, right? That’ll show him. Everyone’s grabbing shots like hotcakes. I’ll grab 3 for myself. First Jameson, then vodka, and now this? My stomach’s gonna love me tomorrow. I hope the butterflies and the Clase can coexist in there.
Where is the bartender? I miss her.
2:00AM on a Saturday @ The Vodka Pastor / 26 Drinks Consumed
Stumbling, why am I stumbling? Everything is spinning… is that supposed to be happening? The lights are too bright, or is that my stigmatism acting up? Wait, why are the lights on to begin with?
“Alright everyone, it’s time to go. Please close out your tabs, call your Ubers, and get on home!”
I knew we should’ve gone to the city. Those degenerates don’t shut down bars till 4am. But no one wants to listen to the fucking Burgundy Bandit, huh?
God, I feel like throwing up again. Must. Not. Throw. Up.
Why is my tab so high? I only got 20 shots, not 40. They made a mistake, I’ll call the bank and report a stolen debit card tomorrow, fuck it.
Where is my provocative dancing partner D*** at? Oh there she is. How can I not recognize that bod-
Oh my. Her face. Why does it look like that? That ecstasy had me dancing with THAT? I need to get out of here.
Is that P** waving at me? What does he want now? Never mind, because here’s my chance to escape. I hear D*** calling my name. Why did I tell her my name?
P** is tonguing down Z** like a fat kid and ice cream. Must be nice. Everyone else is with them. They’re probably waiting for a ride. Sorry D***, I need to leave with them, and get away from you. She asks me to text her, so I give her a wrong number. Good riddance. I don’t see the bartender anywhere. I think she left.
P** is trying to talk to me right now, but I can’t formulate speech. Did I black out again?
No, I’m perfectly fine. Everything is going to be alright.
…
…
…
…
…
…
4:00PM on a Saturday @ Unknown Location
“You alright? Thought we lost you for a second there.”
I wake up to the sight of P** sitting on a lawn chair next to me, and a can of Blue Moon in hand. The inside of my skull felt like someone set off a series of mini nukes. Cottonmouth had taken over vehemently, but I could still taste the hard liquor from the night before.
I checked my watch. 4:00PM on the dot.
“I’m straight, but do you have any water?” I inquired.
‘Fuck water. Here, have a beer,” P** remarks as he chugs his drink, and tosses a full one towards me. It narrowly misses my crotch, almost as if he intended to hit me there.
As I looked around, I noticed the dim summer sun was setting on an blank sky, and then I realized the setting.
“Can I ask why we’re sitting poolside at some affluent condominium? Am I allowed to ask that? And where are my shoes?”
I patted my pockets to check the rest of my belongings, and realized my phone was missing as well.
“Oh, and my phone. I don’t have my phone. Where is my PHONE?!”
P** spews out his beer, laughing hysterically, as if I just performed a world-class bit at the Helium Comedy Club.
“Your phone is inside charging. You insisted you had to charge it, pretty much talking about it the whole way here. Something about a girl hitting you up for the address to the party. We all tried guessing who it was, but you wouldn’t budge. And as soon as we got here, you knocked out on that lawn chair you find yourself sitting in now, like right away. It was insanely pathetic, but you get a pass because of the shots. Oh, and the craziest thing: T**** owns this condominium! Turns out his wife and kids are out of town for the weekend visiting the folks up north. He came up with an incredibly intricate work-related excuse to stay home, just so he can plan an after-party for me! It was supposed to be a surprise, but he told me about it at dinner. Can you believe that shit? What a stand-up guy. Also, you volunteered to help clean up this circus last night in the Uber, in exchange for a charger, so let’s go.”
Bewildered, I had to beg the question.
“That motherfucker is MARRIED? With KIDS?”
“Yeah man, pretty much a year after high school ended. He’s only ever fucked one girl. It’s no wonder he’s out here trying his best to be a sleaze when she’s away. Or maybe he’s just trying to impress little ol’ me. I think he has the hots for me. Ha.”
As I gathered my thoughts, I came to find out that my shoes were lost on a bet. Apparently, I placed a wager against T**** on who could do the most push-ups outside the bar, and the winner got to keep an article that the loser had in his possession. I was allegedly gunning for his golden vacuum, but T**** wanted my shoes for some odd reason, and P** informed me that I lost by an embarrassingly wide margin.
“It wasn’t even close. 15 reps in, and it was over for you. But him? Oh man, did you start a fire in that boy. I didn’t know skinny guys were capable of THAT many push-ups, until I saw it with my own eyes last night. After you lost and took your shoes off, he tied the laces, and strung them over a telephone line almost immediately, like that was his endgame for the night. He also did a war cry where he said ‘fuck those Wall Street shoes, and fuck you dad!’ I don’t know, guy has some daddy issues or som- HOW DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THIS?”
“Honestly, P**, I’m over it. I’m gonna go get some water.”
“Suit yourself. Take care, Bandit.”
“We had a deal, you bastard!”
He gave me the smuggest look I’ve ever seen on his wretched face.
“Ain’t no honor amongst thieves. You should know that better than anyone else, Bandit.”
As I waded through the wasteland of Solo cups and empty cans of beer that glossed over the grey carpet indoors, I found my phone in the kitchen, dangerously close to a pile of vomit. I wondered if that was my vomit.
I had a million notifications, ranging from replies to my Instagram story (I recorded myself trying to promote the after party in the Vodka Pastor’s bathroom close to midnight, but nothing but gibberish came out of my mouth. The video was a full minute), to checking account statements from two of my banks. My Chase account was charged $120, and as I recall, I gave that card to the bartender. Then, I saw my Bank of America statement. My jaw dropped.
“WHEN THE FUCK DID I SPEND $950 LAST NIGHT?”
A voice I recognized as T****’s heard my despair, and chimed in.
“You doubled down on those Clase Azul shots when I called you out on it for not buying us some, remember? You bought those Tomorrowland weirdos shots, but not us? You know I had to say something. And I saw you take sooooo many shots as well. But hey, in my defense, I gave you free drugs.”
“How are you even married with ki- you know what? I’ma get on home. Nice seeing you again, T****.”
“Wait, where are you going? You’re supposed to help clean up the house! The wife is coming back tomorrow morning!”
“Eat my ass, bitch.”
As I scrolled through my texts, I peeped a thread with a number that I didn’t have saved.
Then, through a dire straining of the cerebral cortex, I recalled: I had invited the bartender to go out with us later that night. T**** told me about the party when I was blacked out, and that’s when I told her as well. She ended up leaving early, faking an illness so she can go home and get ready. I gave her my number last night, and I completely blanked on her. Her message to me was:
“Hi, Bethenny here. Excited for tonight. Don’t forget about me!”
I texted her back explaining the whole story, and she calls me a few minutes later.
Her response?
Sometime between 11:00PM and 11:59PM on a Friday @ The Vodka Pastor / ?? Drinks Consumed
“Before your rowdy friends pull you away again, I never had the chance to tell you what my favorite color was, Mr. Bandit. We had quite the filibuster before, and it was up for contention, but I think I’ve made up my mind indefinitely.”
“Oh yeah? And what color may that be?”
“Burgundy.”
We both smiled.
The Bastard Chronicles 