The Bialy Pimps by Johnny B. Truant Read Free Book Online Page A

saw the situation for what it was and resolved right then and there to give Little John whatever he wanted for free, forever.  
    Captain Dipshit struggled through the lobby toward the counter, dragging the dwarf. There was much huffing and puffing and swearing. None of the customers seemed to care, or even to notice. The realization made Captain Dipshit’s skin crawl. Just like the Private Dancer. Just like the guy who had broken the mirror with the ashtray. There was something wrong here, all right. Where was God when you needed him?
    At the front of the room, Mike realized that the customer/parasite would probably want to order food, so once the team gained the register, he switched into customer service mode.
    “What?” he said.
    In one Gestalt leap, it occurred to Captain Dipshit how odd and how wrong this all was, and with it came the realization that he shouldn’t be here. He should leave. He should run home. He’d just talked to God, he had a headache, and he had an alcoholic dwarf attached to his leg who nobody seemed to see. Nobody was helping him. Was he just supposed to order food like nothing was wrong?
    No, he thought. I can’t let them win.
    “I guess I want a bagel,” he said. “But make it fast. I have a situation here.”  
    Mike, who was enjoying said situation, was in absolutely no hurry.
    “We have many varieties of bagels,” Mike said. “Allow me to list them for you.” He adjusted his baseball cap first in one direction, then in the other. He rubbed his chin.  
    “Egg,” he said.
    “Whatever’s healthiest.”  
    “Wheat.”  
    “Whatever’s healthiest.”  
    “Bialy.”  
    “That’s what I want, roast beef on bialy,” said a voice from below the counter. “I own this fucking place!”
    “Anything for you,” said Mike, “or just the sandwich for your crotch?”  
    Captain Dipshit inhaled sharply as if punched. Then he looked down, shook his leg, then looked down again. It was as if he thought he had something on his shoe.
    “There’s a guy down there,” Mike explained.
    Captain Dipshit looked at him.
    “Right there,” said Mike, pointing.
    So this was really happening. That was good. Or was it? Was it better to have a drunk homeless dwarf attached to your leg and not have anyone offer to help you, or to not have a drunk homeless dwarf attached to your leg at all? It was the eternal question.
    “Maybe you can help me,” said Captain Dipshit.
    “I am helping you.”  
    “I mean, with this... situation,” he said, nodding at Little John.
    “He’s hugging you. That’s how we roll around this place. I’m barely restraining myself from hugging you right now, in fact.”
    “Where’s your manager?”
    “Why?”  
    “I’d like your manager to throw him out,” hissed Captain Dipshit, finally losing his cool. “For christ’s sake, look at him!”  
    Mike leaned forward and looked down. Little John looked back up at him, smiled a black-toothed smile, and unhooked an arm from around the Captain’s leg for long enough to wave.
    “That’s really prejudiced, sir,” said Mike. Then he added, impromptu, “You disgust me.”
    “I’m a customer here,” said Captain Dipshit. “And this... man... is bothering me.”
    “I own this fucking place!” yelled Little John.
    The Anarchist, who had overheard the exchange from behind the corner, walked over. “Hey, Mr. Bingham,” he said.  
    A look of utter befuddlement crossed Captain Dipshit’s face. The Anarchist saw it and explained succinctly, “He owns this fucking place.”  
    But it couldn’t be. That didn’t make sense. The red-haired man was a campus nut, a guy who begged for nickels and had once chased him with a whip and thrown pickles at him. They were obviously screwing with him.  
    The smell. The filth. The odor. The insanity.
    His headache was getting worse.  
    Darcy, who was at the make table and who was sporting prominent cleavage, walked up next to Mike. She leaned over the counter and