draft one

The magnificence of that gigantic farting beast. It’s horns and the inside of its ears were the colour that women strive to ride. just the linear intensity of the circumference of its nostrils like you could imagine a perfectly spun black clay bowl. The eye somewhere between your level one cousin’s intellect and the saddest dumb creature you could ever imagine. So sad the viscosity looked as though a tear was about disengage from the bloodshot corner and stain its leathery shoulder if it moved too fast to the left or the right. So I approached her and her and one of  her sparkly shirted friends at the end of the bar with trepidation and a certain bovine swagger of my own. As she licked the edge of her glass where there was still an accumulation of salt my friend swooped past me like he was released from a falconer’s gloved fist so deft and swift I was actually knocked off balance. Before I could get to my feet he spoke to these mid twentyish lightly moustached cherubs without eye contact only cleavage in the line of sight and said only five words in a such a thick guttaral drunken slurr only the three of us were privy to in its simplicity. “You bitchees fuck aw wot?” I immediately lost my footing once again and fell to a knee feeling the saturation of the denim with either spilt beer, urine or possibly dilluted vomit with a cleaning agent.


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