Dec 4, 2005, 5:33 PM
Post #11 of 29
Back in the day (I won't say which one) Pepe's was next to a place called the Mascot Bar. Pepe's is still there (dang well better be) but the Mascot is long gone. The Mascot had a neon in the (only) front window, was two steps up off the sidewalk, and had a mauled, one-eyed pit bull you had to step over to get inside. the only boat drinks served there involved a shot and a beer, if I recollect. Most of the clientele had big wads of cash in hand, wore short-top white plastic boots, and spoke in, shall we say, a rather rough manner. Shrimpers, off the boats. the boats that used to tie up where condos are now. The Mascot was open every time I walked by...anytime, everytime.
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So here's the story. My buddy Don and I were eating some breakfast under the mondo fan in Pepe's one morning at Oh-crack-sparrow-fart before we went fishing. Not a lot of conversation, if you know what I mean. I'm up across the room getting some Texas Pete for my homefries and the door just BLANG flies open and a guy (white boots, skinny, tanned, and inebriated) falls in and staggers two steps before falling flat on his face on the lino floor. Moans once. and then the blood starts to flow out from under him. Big puddle. Getting bigger. I'm standing there with a bottle of Texas Pete, and Don turns to look. Don and I look at each other. We look back at Mr. White Shoes, who moans again, and rolls onto his side. More blood. Lots more.
So I take a step to put down the Texas Pete, and Don wipes the egg off his face, and starts to get up. two guys come running in behind Mr. White Shoes. One grabs him by the legs, the other goes for his arms. Mr. White Shoes will have none of this, mind you. So he jumps up and swings at the closest of the two. Seeing the situation is well in hand, Don sits back down and picks up his fork. I move to the table, put down the Texas Pete, and pick up the pitcher of ice water. don't know what I was going to do with that.
Mr. White Shoes dis-connects with his roundhouse and slips in his own blood. Falls flat on his face, again. and passes out. The two guys pick him up, and out the door he goes. Don and I look at each other. He gestures at my homefries..."you gonna eat them?" I sit back down, pick up the Texas Pete, and head off his acquisition strategy with a good coating of the sauce.
Cuban floor-washer comes out with mop and bucket. Cleans up blood smear in a few swipes. Don and I finish eating. Waitron comes out of back room with coffee pot and order pad.
"You boys want anything else?"
"Ummm, no, don't think so. Just a check, I guess."
"Here you go. You boys have a good day now."