Seated at a table against the far wall, Clyde and I enjoy our pints of an American lager. To our left, perched atop a high stool, back to the front window and playing a beat-up guitar is an aging hippie; whining out songs with familiar tunes but all the wrong words. The Black Sheep is our destination this evening. Burritos and Brews, so says the sign outside in this college town bordering Kentucky, in West Virginia, U.S. America. The food is decent and the beer strong, surprising for America; and plentiful.
We had flown in on an Empty Jets Americas’ Gulfstream 450, along with a couple dozen of Cuba’s finest cigars. The flight would have taken us all the way to Boston, but about mid flight the jet’s owner needed the bird back. The pilot, an old friend of Jaxon’s was kind enough to drop us off at a small airport about three miles south of here.
With dinner consumed and whiney having finally packed it in, we decide to hang around and drink. Clyde pauses halfway through his seventh pint to slur, “If you kill someone … you better love … to hunt them back to you…” Of course Clyde is referring to that famous saying, “If you love something, set it free, if it doesn’t come back to you, hunt it down and kill it”. Clyde’s been lamenting his lost love, Nelly.
I need to be in Boston Massachusetts by the end of the week to audit a new recruit’s performance. Since we have a few days to kill, Clyde and I decide to drive to New England, and check out some of the touristy things America has to offer.
From my observation post in this joint, I spy a young lass with long, mid back, Capri coloured hair conversing with a blonde college co-ed, both are seated at the bar. Making a mental note that after a couple more drinks in her, I’ll make a move on the blonde; blue was never my colour. I am also aware of the proliferation of bearded men; normally I don’t notice men, except to assess threats of course, that’s not my bag baby; but this is different. Never have I seen in one place, nearly every man sporting a full beard, including some outlandish follicle creations. One fellow, clearly in his early twenties, sports a Ulysses S. Grant beard. The rest of the men range from ZZ Top to Shakespeare to Duck Dynasty in their grooming; very odd indeed.
About an hour before last call, Clyde, having slightly recovered from his earlier depression, elbows me, gesturing at the two birds, blonde and blue. I nod in agreement. Before I can tell him my preference, he says he’s going after the blond. Knowing Clyde’s been having a rough time getting over that bird, Nelly, I let him go for it. Sideling up to Blue, whilst Clyde does the same to Blonde, I cannot help but notice that not only do her fingernails sport the same colour as her hair, but also the cover on her I-Phone. I look over at Clyde to check his progress, but he and Blonde are already gone; nice.
Blue takes a little more convincing, but of course, I’m able to wrangle her back to my room. I notice that the carpet and drapes do match, but the hamster suite she shares is mediocre at best. Seems Blue has been so completely burned out by recreational sex and by life in general, her body was only going through the motions of human existence. Putting Blue into the cab I rang for, I suggest to her that in order to feel alive, she should check into espionage, or perhaps the Peace Corps, as a career choice.