After she came back with it and told me it was four-fifty, I slammed a five on the bar and told her to keep the change.
The music suddenly stopped and I thought, Aw hell, they’re about to lynch me up in here, female or not.
I was wrong. Some drunken bastard got up on their little makeshift stage and broadcasted that is was time for the karaoke contest. Now I was really laughing at their country asses. I searched the place for some bingo tables but found none. I was convinced there was a bingo hall in Trinity someplace, though.
The first bitch that took the stage was ghastly. She couldn’t hold a tune if her life depended on it. I was amazed someone didn’t swing a beer bottle at her head. If Dolly Parton had been in the house, she would’ve been justified in doing it since it was her song that was murdered. Someone needed to tell that whore to sit down, so I did. I yelled out, “Sit down, whore! Sit down, whore!” just like the people on Jerry Springer.
Everyone swung around to look at me. One fat motherfucker at the bar, whose head was bigger than a watermelon, leered at me and said, “Why don’t you shut up? That girl can sing.”
I poked his arm, which was thicker than a country ham, and replied, “If that whore can sing, I’m Halle Berry.”
“Who the hell is Halle Berry?” he asked.
“Never mind,” I said, after smacking my lips in disgust. Then I got curious and started acting straight-up indignant. “Have you ever heard of any famous African Americans? Martin Luther King Jr.? Malcolm X?”
He got cynical with me. “No, but I’ve heard of that colored boy out in California that sliced up his wife and her buddy.”
I rolled my eyes. “He never got convicted.”
He took a swig of his beer and said, “Just shut up and let me enjoy the show.” He must not have been able to resist being nosy because five seconds later, he was asking me, “What you doing in here anyway? You can’t be from around here.”
“What makes you think I ain’t from around here?” I responded in a countrified accent and pretended like I had chewing tobacco in my mouth.
“’Cause you ain’t,” he said. “The coloreds around here know better than to come in here.”
“The coloreds?” I chuckled. “Why’s that? I didn’t see any ‘For Whites Only’ signs on the front door.”
He sneered at me. “Some things don’t have to be said for people to know them.”
“I feel you. I mean, no one has to tell me that you’re a fat fuck for me to know it.”
His friend beside him, who was a complete contrast, and as skinny as the bar rail asked, “What did she just say to you?”
I responded by yelling over the music and horrible singing of the next contestant who was murdering another artist’s song. “I said, no one has to tell me that he’s a fat fuck for me to know it!” The scrawny one just stared at me like he was sizing me up. “You think you can take me? Jump, motherfucker, jump!”
“Leroy, let me handle this,” the fat fuck said, holding his palm up in front of the undernourished one’s face. “Missy, if I were a lesser man, I’d do something mighty ugly to you, but my daddy raised me better than to hit a woman. So I’m just gonna let this one slide.”
I laughed in his face and mocked him with my country accent. “Well, I sure do appreciate it.”
I was growing bored. The karaoke was giving me a headache and the drink was weak because most of the ice had melted. I was about to leave when they announced the next contestant.
“Umph, look at him!” I said aloud.
Fat Fuck turned to me and chuckled. “So you got a thing for white meat, huh? No wonder you’re up in here.” He nudged his friend’s shoulder. “Hey, Leroy, this one over here has that ‘jungle fever’ in her blood.”
“I have a thing for dick period,” I said bluntly.
“Boys have dicks. Real men have cocks,” he said.
I shook my head. “A cock is a chicken. A dick is a dick.”
“Well, since you put it like that, I happen to have a dick,” he said, licking his lips. “So does my buddy over here. How about you take the two of us on a little adventure tonight? I got a pickup right outside with a comfy bed on it.”
“Let me guess. Yours is the one that says ‘Redneck’s Toy’ on the back?”
“How’d you know that?”
I scowled. “Figures.”
“So how ’bout it?”
Fat Fuck was distracting me from the hunk on the stage who was the first decent contestant, both in looks and talent. He was singing “These Boots Were Made for Walking.”