“Get the fuck out of here,” the woman mumbled.
“Pardon?” I asked. She turned and looked me dead in

the eye. “I said step the fuck off, bitch, and get
the hell away from me. I don’t like you. You

annoy me.” I just sat there for a moment,
confused as to what I’d done. One minute we-

“Hey you,” she said, waving her hand in my face.
“Hello? Is there anybody in there? Just

nod if you can hear me.” I nodded. She frowned.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Were you serious, just now?”

I replied, answering her question with a
question. “Was I serious about what?” she

countered, upping the question count to three. “That
whole, ‘Step the fuck off,’ thing,” I answered. She shrugged.

“Why would you think I was serious?” said she.
“I tend to take most folks at their word,” said I.

“I’ve had a few bad experiences with
people that’s left me … I don’t know. Jaded is

what some asshole hipster would say as he took
off his Buddy Holly glasses to clean them

for the tenth time in ten minutes as he droned
on about how hard he has it, never mind

the fact that everyone and their mom’s son
have problems that make life a living Hell. Nah.

This cigar-smoking douchebag has it worse than
anyone in history’s history. Just

ask him. He’d love nothing more than to provide
inane analysis of Marx and Lenin

while bragging about the underground band from
Missoula, Montana whose record he owns.

‘They kind of sound like The Stones, man,’ he’d say. Then
I’d go, ‘Right on, brother. Sympathy for the

Devil. You know what I mean?’ and I’d throw up
the horns at him, like this…” I showed her what I

meant, raising the index and pinky fingers
on my right hand and holding down the others

with my thumb. \m/ – “This means rock and roll,” I told
her, and she nodded. “It is not a bad thing.

In fact, it can save your soul, if you let it.
But back to the hipster moron who said he

liked the Rolling Stones. He would stare at my hand,
pull on the straps of his suspenders, cluck his tongue

and scoff, then he’d roll his eyes and chuckle, like
I was the biggest idiot he’d ever

met. ‘Uh…’ he’d begin, looking anywhere but
my eyes. ‘I’m talking about the band The Stones.

They’re Nu-metal, meets Irish folk, meets Peter
Frampton, if Frampton played with an electric

violin. They’re super edgy. I bet you’ve
never delved into the Montana rock scene,

have you? It’s a cornucopia of sound.’”
The woman crinkled her nose and shifted in

her seat. “Who is this hipster person?” she asked.
I shrugged. “It’s all in the attitude,” I said.

She seemed confused. Right about then Kublai Khan
stumbled up holding a bottle of vodka

and screaming, “Where is that idiot who keeps
misspelling my name in the local paper?

I’m gonna give that son of a bitching-god
damned bastard a piece of my mind. This is … oh.”

Kahn dropped the bottle and vomited. Then he
looked at me and smiled. It was disgusting.

“You alright over there, pal?” the woman asked.
The old man nodded and threw up again. “Hey!”

he yelled, when he was through. “Do you know the worst
thing about vodka? It’s clear, so when it comes

back up, you can see all the things you’ve eaten
that day.” The woman and I gagged. The old man

stared at the ground around his feet. “Hmm, that’s odd.
I don’t remember eating blueberry pie.”

And that was it, folks. The woman next to me
lost her lunch. I turned away, but once the smell

hit the air my stomach did a flip and I
must have thrown up all the food I’d eaten since

  1. The old guy saw me puke
    and that made him hurl once more. Then her. Then me.

This went on for much longer than it should have.
The only thing that stopped it was a bolt of…


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