The evening that Knight got off from his hangar duty, he was feisty. The smell of rowdiness wafted through and around his stringy body. What was Knight going to do? “Maybe I could go to the bar and drink ‘till I find my next ex wife,” he thought. Our hero embarked on his journey, and much like any other evening, Knight’s journey led him to Timmy’s Tavern, a local establishment that he enjoyed visiting. The building had this big red fox figurine at the top, the exterior was like one of those Lincoln log houses you make when your parents are too busy to take care of you and you and you.
Upon entrance, Knight was fascinated with how the velvet paintings hung so carefree from the walls. “Who would have thought that Elvis could ever look so good,” he always thought to himself as he walked down the creaky steps to where the real action was. The smell of Seagram’s was rank in the glares of the dirty ol’ patrons. It kinda smelled sweet to Knight. It wasn’t really a big deal though, he was used to it. It smelled like the time he was peeing in the bathroom trough and Barnard Spinx came in and vomited on his new wool pants. It was a sweet smell. No more reminiscing for Knight, it was time to fly to the land of disregard, the land of easy speak, the land of heady wine and headier whiskey.
The bar was cold and wet on the pock-marked face of Knight. Apparently he had passed out while explaining his stock portfolio to a young women with tits so nice you could hang your coat on ‘em. The only problem was that he didn’t have a stock portfolio. Hell, he didn’t even have a coat, just his work shirt with his name embroidered on the right breast pocket. The bartender, once his friend, was now angry. “I think it’s time that you go home Knight. And oh yeah, about your tab.” Knight’s heart pounded, in an instant he had left the roundtable and was on a horse named thriftiness all the way to his little motorbike he affectionately called the “slowped.” Where would Knight’s journey take him to now? Well it turned out that after he rounded the small pass on the way to his one bedroom apartment overlooking all the pieces of shit floating in the Dandier river (his Dad used to call ‘em swimmin’ Jimmies), he crashed. He didn’t die, he wasn’t going fast enough, but he got knocked out. This all happened up by Williams point, which had a nice little place to park and look at the stars, so Knight was set. Sleepy, but set.
Knight awoke in a stupor (for the second time that evening) to the sound of long moans and creaking noises coming from a small distance away. As he cleared his eyes of the sleep that had collected he realized that it was still dark out. More importantly there was a powder blue Geo Metro parked about two feet away from his pounding skull. Going into stealth mode, Knight peaked over the rim of the window to discover that there were two people all wrapped up in each other. Maybe it was the gin, but Knight couldn’t tell where one started and the other ended. It almost looked like they were fighting, but Knight knew they weren’t. Nobody bites their lip like that when they fight. The curve of the woman’s back made Knight want to reach out and touch. The way the man’s hips jutted out from his skin made Knight want to grab the man’s hands and place them on the woman’s back. Knight could almost taste the sweat dripping, could almost hear the nothings they whispered. Immediately, Knight held committee in his head. After three minutes of intense deliberation Knight decided that masturbating in the bushes would be the best course of action. In reality, our poor hero never made it that far. His calloused hands were not as pleasing as he imagined the young woman’s to be. Nature was Knight’s bed that evening. Sleep tight Knight, don’t be too hard on yourself.