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

extended her hand. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Bingham.”
    Little John shook her hand. “You have huge tits,” he replied.
    “This isn’t the owner,” said Captain Dipshit. “This is a campus bum.”  
    “Can’t he be both?” said Mike.
    Captain Dipshit rolled his eyes. “This is ridiculous.”  
    Little John punched Captain Dipshit in the testicles. “Fuck you, hippie! I’m three foot six, I’m thirty-six, and this is my motherfucking restaurant!”  
    The Anarchist, Darcy, and Mike were all smiling mildly. None of this was fazing them. And really, why would it? The woman dancing in front of the mirror, her front smeared with dried blood. The guy who belted out classical rock music on the street. Hadn’t he even seen a fat man walking around wearing a pair of Mickey Mouse ears, a thong, and nothing else? Par for the course. Was it really that inconceivable that Bingham’s owner was a smelly megalomaniac homeless dwarf?
    Yes.  
    But somehow it wasn’t. Somehow, on some level, it made sense.  
    In a vortex of evil, anything goes.
    Captain Dipshit looked at Little John, who was covered in what looked like oil stains. Where had he been sleeping last night? He had a crusted-over cut on one of his hands. What had he punched with that hand?  
    The fiery red hair. The fiery red beard.
    Maybe he’s Satan.
    Okay, that wasn’t funny.  
    Captain Dipshit felt his heart speed up. No, he willed it. Losing his cool would be letting them win. If they were going to act like nothing strange was happening, so would he. He’d just do his business, leave, and then never come back. He’d had enough bizarreness for this lifetime.  
    “Forget the sandwich,” he said. “I’ll just have iced tea.”  
    “We don’t have iced tea anymore,” The Anarchist told him. “The iced tea guy was an uptight prick. He came in here and whined and whined, so we told him to go away and then Rich took a past-expiration ham over to his house and dropped it down his chimney, yelling, ‘Bombs away!’”
    Mike turned to the Anarchist. “Really?”
    “No,” the Anarchist said, chuckling. “We didn’t even know the tea guy’s name.”  
    Captain Dipshit, who didn’t need this extra information, switched his request to hot tea.
    “I don’t know whose chimney it actually was,” the Anarchist told Mike. Mike nodded.  
    “Or just a teabag to go. Like, just hand it to me and I’ll make the tea later.”  
    Little John punched him in the testicles again. “You’d better pay for that!” he said. “This is my place and those are my fucking teabags!”  
    Captain Dipshit doubled up and fell over. From the floor, looking up, Bingham / Satan seemed to tower over him. Something fell out of his beard and hit Captain Dipshit on the forehead. Captain Dipshit wiped it frantically away and stood back up without missing a beat. None of the employees had reacted, so he’d better not react much, either.  
    “One dollar,” said Mike.
    “Here you go.”  
    “This is a library card,” said Mike.
    Captain Dipshit took the card, gave Mike a dollar, and began tapping his foot. It was a good feeling. Familiar. Regardless of whether he was in a den of evil or not, he was beginning to get impatient. He fell into it, looking around with short, birdlike movements. Satan Bingham wouldn’t win this round.  
    Mike handed him a teabag.  
    “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a regatta,” said Captain Dipshit with a small, uptight nod of his chin. He bent to address Little John. “And it was nice to meet you, Mr. Bingham.”  
    Mr. Bingham feinted at striking his testicles again. Captain Dipshit flinched.
    Don’t let them see you sweat, he told himself, regaining his composure. He turned and walked mildly to the door. Once he reached the door and had opened it mildly, he mildly refused to look back. He turned mildly onto the sidewalk along High, and ten seconds later felt the evil pull of the place begin to release him.  
    He was