He had it Comin’
My tale was intentionally a little homo-erotic.
Anytime one mixes testosterone and adrenaline, there’s some kinda’ horny gay mist that permeates the atmosphere.
While there is some debate on the veracity of “battle boners”, I say the presence of “blood lust” as an English idiom lends credence to the idea.
Here we have Conor MacGregor as anecdotal evidence.
(BTW, the Griggs family are descendants of Clan MacGregor, a proud and rakish band of cattle rustlers among the first to pick up the bagpipes. I might’ve included some imaginary pipes in my tale.)
My alliterative use of “cock” “tilt” and “shot up” was a calculated ploy, and I got a little sadistic pleasure from delaying the climax and denouement until after a lengthy digression, not unlike the bits of whale history in Moby Dick.
Unlike that cock-tease, James Finn, who leaves everybody high-and-dry in Alligator Alley singing Kumbayah with the manatees:
But we’re not bitter about that.
Oh no.
Anyway, maybe what you really wanted, Darren Stehle, was a scene where I Ned Beattyed that cocky motherfucker right there on the sticky, artesian-beer-encrusted floor of the Gateway Pub, all of my poker buddies cheering in the background.
The scene would close with the bartender locking the doors while the most strapping and shaggable of my pals and I remain behind, form a line and prepare to run a train on the hysterical, squealing cur.
Next day, dawn breaks over a puppy-pile of Santorum-crusted flesh in every hue, all sleeping and satiated, splayed akimbo across the banquettes.
Your smugly satisfied hero is propped up against the jukebox, a thin wisp of smoke from his Virginia Slim wafts up, up into the dusty rafters.
“That’s Mr. Fag to you, boy.”
and . . . scene.
Fade to:
