I presently believe I do not possess the literary powers to describe accurately the madness unfolding in front of me inside Oregon Tavern Age (OTA) country. But I will try.
A gaunt, elderly meth woman wearing jean shorts and a halter top is playing a Wonder Woman slot machine with savage ferocity while drinking a vodka and cranberry juice. At the same time, she is screaming at no one in particular about the liberal hoax that is the Corona Virus and other assorted conspiracy theories.
“If Trump isn’t wearing a mask, there is a cure.”
“My husband died of the flu and they didn’t call out the National Guard for me.”
I think she might be a prostitute of some kind. I also think her trick or pimp is in here. He’s sitting far away, at a table. He’s older, wearing pleated shorts and a dress shirt. He sports greased short gray hair and glasses. He’s on his fifth or sixth greyhound and playing terrible 80s music through his phone and a speaker shaped like a spike heeled shoe that is resting on the table. I can hear the music over the slots, television and fan. I am desperately wishing someone would smash the speaker to smithereens and I could get back to writing my erotica story about a suspension bridge.
Wait! An OTA regular just told the trick or pimp to turn off the speaker. He did!
The hooker left Wonder Woman, pounded her drink, and went up to the trick or pimp and they left!
Back to LITERATURE!