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This section of the site is for stuff that doesn't fit anywhere else. Kind of a blog. Short stories, poetry, that type of thing.
LUIGI O’REILLY’S TRAVEL COMPANION. PART 14: BRIGHTON
(Luigi O'Reilly is the fictitious brother of Bill O'Reilly. A paranoid delusional wreck who is eternally trapped inside a 5th rate 30's detective film.)
It’s the middle of February, a couple degrees above zero. So where are all these people going? It take’s me an hour to drive from the outskirts of town to the seafront, and another 20 minutes to find some place to park.
I walk along the pier with the 500 other bozo’s who believe the crackpot baloney about global warming. Like my brother Bill says, "so the dames have to wear a few less clothes. Where’s the beef?"
The beach is crowded with people from London town and seagulls from France. Those jokers better not think I’ve forgotten the last time they tried to mess with me. Nobody craps in Luigi O’Reily’s ear and flies off majestically into the Malibu sky. Nobody.
So I’m behind enemy lines, I’m eating a doughnut I paid too much dough for from a crooked nut on the pier. I’m looking straight at the seagulls and I’m guessing they’re looking straight at me. This time they aint gonna swoop down and grab my doughnut with their thieving beaks. Not this time. See, I got too much pride to let some two bit scavenger make a monkey out of me, I’m taking it to them. Let’s see what they got.
What the hell is this? You call this a beach? No sand, just stones the size of eight balls, for miles along the coast. Crazies, presumably, sitting on the stones eating their crazy man food. Then I get to thinking, they can’t all be crazy. And they sure aint here for the weather. Something’s going on here and I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.
I leave the beach and head back into the town, after only an hour I find a place to park. I think about checking the parking sign but figure it’s Sunday and I’m hungry; so I head for a bar.
They got steak on the menu, "how do you want it done" the kid says. "Well", I said, "I want it done quick, I got a hunger like a British Airways passenger on Mexican weed." I get back to my car and see some kinda piece of paper on the windshield. This aint gonna be good I think to myself. I pick it up and read it, it’s a parking ticket. I look all around me, nobody there to stare menacingly at. I look up. Then I get it straight in the eye.
Somebody needs to fix those seagulls, they’re playing with fire.
I find a hostel, 12 bucks a night. It has a bar, 10% off drinks for guests. I ask the broad behind the bar for a calculator. She don’t have one. I try to figure out how much I gotta drink to stay for free but after a while my head starts hurting so I go looking for another bar. All the bars are empty, but the streets are filled with people walking around and driving. Where are they all going? I find a gin joint with a sign outside saying 'come on in, let us Brighton up yourday'. Cute. But I aint buying it. I step inside, a few shady looking characters cling to the walls. I like it. "Bourbon and soda, hold the
rocks. Say, speaking of rocks, what’s the lowdown on the beaches‘round here?". "Two pounds and eighy five pence please sir." That guy sure did talk weird.
I leave the bar and look around me at the tall white Victorian buildings and the gay homosexual males that are into other men and don't dig dames and the traffic and the steep hills....
That's when it hit me.
I'm in a parallel universe!
This is Frisco!
I call my therapist to tell him I've cracked the case wide open and this time nobody's gonna slam it shut in my face. "Luigi, Luigi, Luigi", he said my name three times, just like that."What did I tell ya about getting some rest and forgetting about Frisco and the crazy Greek broad you took the rap for over the Blue Moon Club racket?" "I forget, remind me", I said, but I hadn't forgot nothing. "I told you to take a holiday, get out of the private dick game for a spell, write a travel book"
LUIGI O’REILLY’S TRAVEL COMPANION. PART 15: SNITTERFIELD
Snitterfield is a sleepy village nestled between Stratford Upon Avon and Leamington Spa. It has no shops, but it does have a bar. I decide to takea look. It's 2000 hours. The moon is bright and lights up the wheat fields below the car park of 'The White Hare' bar. I step inside the bar, couple suspicious looking characters playing pool. I walk past them trying not to make eye contact. Two dames are sitting at the bar. I sit next to them and order a beer, I figure they probably don't know what bourbon is out here and I don't want them to find out. Next thing the two dames and the barman are playing blackjack. I'm thinking maybeI should sit somewhere else, guys like me can get shot for sitting at a bar when dames are playing cards. But just as I'm looking around for another seat, somewhere close to the wall, they ask me if i wanna play. "Sure", I said, "but I don't gamble, gambling's for suckers and Luigi O'Reilly aint a sucker". I get 21, then 21 again, But instead of reaching for his gun the barman asked if I knew how to play liar. "Sure", I said. "But back where I come from we call it bullshit". "Where are you from anyways mister", one of the dames asked. "Leamington Spa" I told her. "You sure do talk weird" she said.
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LUIGI O’REILLY BUYS SOME SHOES
Ok so picture this, I’m walking around downtown looking to buy me some shoes. There’s a shoe shop at 3 o’clock with a coffee vendor outside. "Black, no sugar, say, you got any bourbon under the counter?" She don’t bite, I drink my coffee and head inside. All these shoes look like they belong on some middle aged dames feet. Can’t a guy get sneakers in this town? They got every size ‘cept size 9, you guessed it, I’m size 9. I keep walking down the street, in my old shoes. The reason I’m looking for shoes is ‘coz I noticed a strange ungodly smell in my apartment, first I figured it was just a ghost, or maybe a dead body. Then I realized the smell hung around every place I hung around. Wait, I know that smell. Mildew. Musk. Yeah, I had this once before. I carefully remove my left shoe and take a look under the hood. It used to be blue, now it's cerulean. My sole’s got a hole in it. All the rain and dirt got trapped inside and now it’s emanating toxic gasses into my new apartment. I need new shoes.
Now, the last time I bought me some footwear I had to buy the box. I took the shoes up to the counter, broad tells me I gotta bring the box up to the counter too. "I don’t wanna buy the box, I got plenty a' boxes lady, I need shoes!" "Well, you need to take the box otherwise we can’t sell you the shoes".
That was California.
This is England. They don’t put shoes in boxes, they ask you if you want a bag. "No, goddamnit I want a box! They’re shoes for the love of God, put them in a goddamn shoe box!"
