Eight bottles of beer on the wall

Summary: It sounds like a set-up to a bad joke, I know. It ain't. I ain't crazy.

AN: This one's in first person, in a conversational style. The cussing implied is more severe than that which is actually used. But lots and lots of implied cussing. And pretty much the opposite of politically correct.

Two Guys Walk Into a Bar

Two guys walk into a bar…

It sounds like a set-up to a bad joke, I know. It ain't. It's a set-up to a baaaaaad friggin' joke. No really.

You know why it's the set-up to a seriously bad friggin' joke? You wanna know? You really wanna know? You're gonna think I'm crazy. But I ain't. I ain't crazy, friggin' apeshit nuts. I ain't. I ain't pullin' your leg either. You think I'm a joker? Do I look like a joker to you?

Next you're gonna think I'm a drunk. I ain't no drunk, no matter what that soft-headed nephew of mine says. I maybe was drunk at the time, but I know what I saw.

I know what I friggin' saw that night.

And it was friggin' apeshit crazy, alright? It was nuts.

You ain't gonna believe me. You ain't gonna believe that two guys walked in here, into Ray's Bar, few years ago and chopped the heads offa six goddamn people. Like somethin' outta a goddamn horror movie or some shit. No, you ain't gonna believe me.

Know why? 'Cause it's friggin' crazy, that's friggin' why!

Alright, alright. Here's what happened. 'Cause you all just wanna know, right? Here's how it happened.

Now I'm sittin' here, right here at this very table, nursin' a drink like always—whiskey, straight up—and two guys walk in, right? They just walk in through that door, look around the place a bit, and sit down in that table there over in that corner.

Pretty Boy—he looks a coupla years older than the other guy he come in with, which has his hair all long and shit hidin' his face like that Justin Beaver kid, you know who I mean, that friggin' gay little kid singer all over the friggin' internet—but Pretty Boy looks like one a those goddamn movie stars, ya know? All ten foot long eyelashes and puffy lips and shit. Too pretty to be a real man. Gay as a Christmas tree, if you ask me, those two. But got nothin' against them, it's a free country, God loves us all. Amen. Drink to that.

Anyway, Pretty Boy gets up and goes over to Fat Joe, talks to him a bit, more than to just order two beers, like maybe he's talkin' him up, ya know? And maybe he slips him a bill or two, get him really going. Fat Joe and Pretty Boy, they look over at the pool table in that there middle space right there where Green Willie and Slim Tim're playin' now.

Now that night, there was seven people standin' there around that table. Seven of 'em, two gals and five men. Now these here folks ain't the quietest of people, you seein' what I mean? Someone makes a bad shot, they was all over the place, drinkin', shoutin', yellin', whoopin', the whole works. They fair made my head pound, the ruckus they made. Rowdy folks, which I don't rightly like, them gettin' in the way of my good quiet time here. I like it when there ain't nothin' but some good ol'-fashioned music on that there record box—nothin' like that new-fangled Hannah-Anna Fontana and Justin Beaver ear-rot crap—and my glass of Jack. I don't like it when people gets noisy. Give me a headache so friggin' bad it'll make a migraine look like a little bug bite.

Now this crowd, one of the boys notices Pretty Boy and Tall Beaver sittin' in that corner there. This kid, he's maybe twenty or so, just a kid, jabs the guy next to 'im, and the other guy on his other side, and the three of 'em goes and walks over to the two in the corner, like they out of one of 'em gangster movies kids eat up these days.

Now I dunno what they all said, on account of sitting way over here and them way over there, and the kid and his two buddies standin' with their backs to me, but it wasn't nothin' pleasant, I'll tell you that.

Sure, Pretty Boy was smiling, nice as can be, but oh, that handsome mug was hiding something, I can sure tell you that. 'Sides, Tall Beaver had this look on his face, like he was already thinkin' of choppin' those guys' heads off—I'm gettin' there, I'm gettin' there.

Well, nothin' happens then, but Pretty Boy and Beaver getting up and headin' for the door, all nice and civilized. I let out my breath then, didn't even know I was holding it, but I shouldn't've, on account of—

Now hold on, hold on, I need a drink, my throat's dry as my ol' Aunt Fannie's behind, and she's dead, haha—thanks Heather honey, how's your daddy? Oh no, sorry to hear that. He was a good man, good man. Give my best to your momma.

Now where was I? Ah, yes. The two boys walk to the door, but Pool Boy grabs Pretty Boy's shoulder and bites his neck. I'm not kiddin', this boy's really chompin' on Pretty Boy's neck. Then I see this friggin' huge knife come out of nowhere and chop Pool Boy's head off. Right offa his neck, like it was made outta wax or some shit.

I look up and see it's Beaver. He looked pissed, real pissed, I tell you. He's got his huge-ass knife, like a friggin' machete knife in his hand, and is lookin' at the other two guys left, Pool Boy's buddies. Pool Boy's head's rollin' around on the goddamned floor like a retarded football or some shit.

And shit, holy friggin' shit! You shoulda seen his goddamn mouth, son. All this blood, red, still drippin' down his friggin' chin. And those teeth of his—I ain't never seen teeth like his. Like a shark's mouth, that was. All sharp teeth with that blood all over. Now I seen this kid's mouth before when he was playin' pool and he didn't look like that. He looked like any other kid on the street. Nothin' wrong with his mouth but maybe he needed teeth braces or whatever torture wires they put on kids' mouths these days. 'Cept now there they was, a row of sharp-as-shit chompers right there where they shouldn't be.

All six buddies of his are standin' in front of Pretty Boy and Beaver now. And bless my soul if they ain't all got their teeth hangin' outta their mouths too, just like the ones in Pool Boy's head which is still rollin' around on the floor. And hell boy, they was hissin'. Like this: Hisssssss, hissssssss. Ain't never heard nothin' like that ever in my life before, and I honestly don't think I ever will. Sent shivers right down my back, it did. Made all the hairs on my back stand straight up at attention, yessir.

By this time, Pretty Boy's got a knife out too, just as big and shiny as Tall Beaver's. He's holdin' onto his neck to keep the blood in, but he's got that same pissed off look Beaver's got. Didn't know if it seemed like an even fight, those two again' those six, but what with all that freaky shit, I woulda been fine if they just killed each other off. That woulda made me a happy man.

But that didn't happen. One of them girl-critters lets out another hiss and jumps at Tall Beaver. I see right off that it ain't a smart idea—Slash! Pretty Boy's machete comes down on her. While her head's busy fallin' to the ground and rollin' under the table, another girl runs at Pretty Boy and actually gets his neck, again. She's suckin' on it, like it's her momma's tit or some shit, and Pretty Boy's trying to get her off. Beaver can't help him, seeing as he's too busy fighting off the rest of the bunch, four friggin' shark-toothed bastards.

Slash! Slash-slash! Whoo-pow! Then all of a sudden, there's only one left. He just turns tail and runs faster than anything I've ever seen, and I seen some pretty fast shit. Beaver lets his machete down, goes to his partner, who's down. There's some slappin' of the face, maybe some sweet-talkin', and Pretty Boy gets up. Boy musta lost a lot of blood, 'cause he ain't lookin' so good now. They've got pressure on that neck o' his, but the shirt they're usin' is turnin' red real fast.

They look around the bar, and everyone's just frozen. Frozen like they jus' stopped there when that fight done started and stayed there. Now we're all of us waitin' to see if we're next on their list, if we're gonna all end up with our heads cut off by two crazies.

But no, they just stand there starin' back at us, Pretty Boy leanin' on his boyfriend a little bit, lookin' real pale.

"Sorry, folks," Tall Beaver says after a long bit, lookin' real 'pologetic. "Sorry. We'd stay to clean up, but we gotta get him some help. Yeah, so we'll just be leaving," he says, shufflin' them out the door. "Sorry for the mess."

Then an engine starts up and they're gone.

We're all just left sittin' there, Joe with his hand on a bottle, in the middle of pourin' out a drink into a glass that spilled over five minutes ago, and Heather frozen while wipin' down a table. Teddy and Randy with their drinks halfway to their mouths, we was all left frozen here for the longest time after.

Then Heather starts screamin'.

And I swear, all hell broke loose. All hell. Teddy done had a heart attack right there, Randy started screamin' louder than Heather was doin', and Joe took his gun out from under the counter, too late if you ask me. Me? I just finished up my drink and went on home, seein' as I thought I had more than enough to drink that night already. Thought I was seein' things, you understand.

But I looks in the paper the next mornin', and what do I see but '6 Beheaded in Bar; Police Baffled' on the front page. Now I says to myself, "Now Ricky, now Ricky, what you thought you saw last night must have been the truth, God's honest truth."

And that's the story I'm stickin' to.

I'll be goin' now, havin' finished my drink and all. What? Have they found those two men? Naw, my nephew Georgie's the sheriff, and he ain't found nothin' yet. Nor's he likely to, took after his daddy's side of the family, buncha goddamn weak-headed mooks. Those de-capertated heads did have them teeth in 'em like I said, for sure. You just go ask Georgie.

You wanna buy ol' Ricky another drink? Alright, alright, won't say no. Joe, whiskey, just like always.

AN: Edited after the first posting done very early this morning (about 2:30 am). I found some mathematical errors, like how two and four don't add up to seven, etc. :P All fixed now!