Luigi Goes Back To Kelseys Again To Revisit One More Time

Yeah that’s right, I go back to Kelseys again on a return visit. I need to follow up on some leads and some cheap bourbon. So I’m fixing to get to the bar. Only problem is, I can’t even see the counter through the thick cloud of hipsters and students. “I am like so Oh My God drunk? Dude I so totally shouldn’t have had that last Coors Lite?”
“Is that a question?” I inquire. No response. I guess it isn’t. They move out of the way pretty quick when I start coughing and spluttering and murmur “damn this wretched disease”. Next thing I know I got the whole bar to myself and a choice of whiskey and barmaids. I pick the blonde and a straight Kentucky mash.

“Hold the rocks sister.”
“You want ice with that, mister?” the broad behind the counter asks. “Sure” I answer. She’s around 5’11″, with legs made for stamping on any guy who gets in her way, and what she makes up for in looks she lacks in brains. Maybe she can help me.
“Say, doll -What kind of coat can only be put on when wet?”
She looks at her fingernails then burbles “a raincoat?”
“Thank you” I tell her, and take my bourbon and thoughts for a short drive out to the smoking area.

The main bar room is full of shifty looking folk and things don’t get any prettier in the smoking area. Some of these guys look like they haven’t noticed the personal hygiene aisle at the grocery store, like they think shaving foam is some kind of new cheese. As I stand there thinking about cheese a giant mass of tangled ginger hair starts speaking. The only way I can figure out there’s a guy behind it is from the light bouncing off his glasses. Hair don’t wear glasses, and beards don’t talk. You gotta be smarter than that to fool me.
He introduces himself as Mitt.
“What the hell kind of name is Mitt?” I ask him. He carefully removes some hair from his mouth and tells me it’s the kind of name of a guy kind of running for president. This is in 2012.
“They’re hiring hippies now?” As he begins to disentangle and move the hair from his face I notice he has a moll. She’s around 5’10″, wears heavy make up and shades and never speaks or changes her expression. I wink at her and she doesn’t even tell me to take a hike. I figure maybe I’ll follow it up with a smile but before I get a chance to a siren sounds. Half the punks in the joint freeze, mid-conversation. The rest of ‘em make for the fire exit. I decide to use the main door, no need to get jumpy. As I walk past the bar I turn to the blonde broad behind the counter and say;
“It’s a coat of paint. The answer is a coat of paint.”

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