Whoops

Me and Frank are walking back from the pisser, both a bit drunk... alright, fucking tanked. In front of us is a short guy wearing jeans and a black t-shirt with the words, "When in doubt, knock'em out" on the back. He has gray slicked back hair, and a graying mustache that gives him a slight hillbilly look.

"Hey man, where'd you get that fucking shirt? That's badass! You work at that bar in Lincoln Park? I think I saw them wearing those shits when I was there," Frank says.

The guy turns around, looks him up and down, and stone dead soberly says, "There's only one way to get this shirt." He's leaning on the bar, and does not want to talk to us. There are a couple of bikers that he's hanging with, but you can never tell in Jersey whether they're actually bikers or doctors and lawyers who like to play dress up in leather and act tough on a Saturday night.

I glance at the front of this shirt, and there is a gray skull on fire along with a banner that says, "Support Local 81". Fucking christ, I know how you get that shirt.

"Ha, I know what that is," I say to him. "Frank, let's get movin', this guy just wants to be left alone." He always gets a bit intense when he's been drinking, and I really want to get him away from this guy before he gets any more pissed off.

Why, you ask, was I so wary of this stranger? Well, if you look at the alphabet, H is the 8th letter, and A is the first, and when you see something that says, "Support Local 81," it means that the guy supports the Hell's Angels. I don't what this guy did to get it... but whatever it was, it was fucking bad, and he would put a beer bottle through our throats in a heartbeat.



I am still extremely drunk, and it's 1 o'clock on a Sunday. Yippee kay yay motherfucker.