Saturn in Retrograde I 1:6
Six
“ Where in the fuck is he? It’s eleven-thirty. I could kill that little twerp!” Gary sat in the upstairs office of Delcino’s Sports Bar, brooding. Tanner Benjamin had, predictably, decided to take the entire evening off. That was not the agreement. That was not the plan. That was a serious breech of the mores and folkways established between himself, and that little ogre. He looked out the long two-way mirror at the crowded floor. It was Saturday night, it was party time, and they were one man short in the kitchen. That made an already hot, miserable environment that much worse. It was the hostility factor. Every time he had gone downstairs and into the back he could feel it: unhappy employees. It was not what he needed. It was serious violation of--- “The mores and folkways...Tanner Benjamin, you are in serious violation of the folkways.” Three hours from now, Rachel Wasserman would be choking on his monster cock, drunker than a dorm full of sorority sisters, and he would forget about the dickless wonder with the ho-hum expression that had no-showed and left him one man short in the kitchen. He saw this phrase in his mind as if it had been lit up like a Las Vegas sign: ONE MAN SHORT IN THE KITCHEN. It made him want to shit on somebody’s head. He put his palm out and punched it with his curled fist. Daddy had always said you couldn’t trust short guys. “They’re just a tad more vicious, a little sneakier, and psycho. Watch out: they’ll hit you when you’re not looking, sport.” And Daddy was always right about these things.
