Bar edge brutality in the depths of last night’s werewolf transformation into a new, ugly morning. I slow sip it, but not all the time, ya know, although tonight felt smoother than all those other ones that I can barely remember.
Reggie and Julio had slippin’ fingers and were losin’ to gravity on the stool cushions. I knew tomorrow was goin’ to feel rougher than it should. But gripin’ over bad decisions never serves a present mind, any good.
‘How ’bouts we call it, tonight, dudes, I’m tryin’ to make the line-up, in the AM, whaddaya say?’ Trey proposed, he’s a goofy-footer; not like surf style stance, but rather, he spent more time swimmin’ after his board than slidin’ the cruise-side of a wave face – just gettin’ out in the water, all gloss and glisten, beats the long stare from the surface of the sand, where the beach-bottoms are sittin’ and wishin’ they’d made tubular decisions.
Seven Story Publishing: https://sevenstorypublishing.wordpress.com/2026/05/09/waggish-tales-from-wrecked-roads-rowdy-trails-nicholas-viglietti/
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Julio, yucked a few hiccups, shades on, and his moral compass ran true, so I sent him out, and pinned an arrival time note to the collar of his flamboyant shirt – he always makes it home to an angry and frantic girlfriend, but he swears she’s sweet – I bet, he’s got a zen-masters control on the long-side of bar-edge hours, and all the yappin’ he’s missin.’
I swung back into the deserted barroom like a Wednesday after a 3-day, & 3-stage, dj & beats, festival. It was completely devoid of a purpose to drink, but Reggie’s always thirstier than the amount of booze on hand.
