Mostly he doesn’t read. He’s a fully qualified member of the Great Unwashed. At least I hope so.

Chuckie may also be getting married soon…

(… A closeup of the moon… the stars bitterly bright… purple cat-slitted eyes…)

What was that? An earthquake? Did the bar shake? Why is my hand trembling?

Maybe I should stay away from provocative topics for a little while. As long as I’m standing here mumbling to a pretend listener in my own mind, I might as well do some background. It’ll take up the time.

Ever been a bouncer?

You say no, my imagined friend? Well, let me explain. It’s not a trivial trade.

Bouncers meet all the chicks. There seems to be a sort of fascination women feel towards that husky bearded type of guy who stands alone with watchful eyes at the edge of the bar with a big flashlight in his pocket and a beer that hardly gets touched during the night. Maybe it’s that here’s a big stud whose whole purpose in life is to make sure little girls don’t get bothered in or around the Yankee Dollar if they don’t want to be.

Anyway, the girls here are always flirting with Chuck. He doesn’t mind, but I hate it. Their attentions make me nervous. I don’t like strangers looking too close. Sure, none of Them, the monsters who pursue me, could disguise himself as a young woman. Especially the way they dress these days. Still, I have Chuck’s girlfriend join him here each night to shake the chicks loose.

Hell, it’s not the girls’ fault. Neither is it Chuck’s. So much for bouncer lesson number one.

Lesson number two is pick a place where kids hang out. You get a hell of a lot more aggravation, minute by minute,