No, this is definitely not my kind of scene man. The last chance saloon time forgot. A hovel so disreputable the local map shows it as a vacant lot. There were visions of yet another good, bad and ugly barroom showdown acting as halftime at the Blitzkrieg Bowl. Even the man at the taps seems unsure whether he should flee the scene pronto, or duck beneath the bar for his widowmaker tenderly known as “Santanico Pandemonium”.

To the locals, we were “los cucarachas”. And man they hated us like they hated sin. Yes, venom was dripping from the asbestos laden walls tonight. Their brains had fallen down their noses long ago due to drink, crank, and otherwise dissolute living. They were at the end of the line…the dregs really. And for this savage night full of evil and foreboding, so were we.

A shadow less vagabond drops one last panhandled buck into the bowels of the jukebox. Oh, the jukebox, a device infamous for the mass murder of music, and ultimately a very expensive machine for people who need a lot of noise to keep from thinking.

The influx of fresh meat and new blood, violating their hallowed barstools, caused the locals to resonate a loathsome malice that would take decades for most normal people to cultivate.

Bogged down by the frenzy of uncertainty, I grow some balls and pensively place a hard earned dollar on the pool table. It seems as if I’m feeding my own twisted quasi-carnal desires by volunteering for this brutal flagellation, otherwise known as “ass whipping” yet to come. I have no doubts that the talent these guys have with green felt and geometry is a sure sign of a wasted youth. However, with several games to wait, we bivouac in the dismal corner, home to creatures wiser and more nefarious than the curs skulking near the dartboard.

A one legged waitress, named “Nelly”, totters over grunting a guttural, two pack a day greeting. To her it seems we’re just another band of hippies to fleece for undeserved tips. Knowing that we should not EVER, by any circumstances given, piss off people who handle our food before we do, we politely requisition the brew mistress for a jug of Guinness. No Dice. Stella Artois? What’s that? Heineken? Apparently served down the road at Bistro “La Cha Ching.”

Exhausted by this futile transaction, we settle on the local draught. To our not so coincidental misfortune, the urine coloured spume tastes more like bong water than barley. Clutching that brew as if it were at talisman, I draw a long haul off my Dunhill and engage in the typical mindless banter common amongst close friends who just wanna “hang loose and rock steady”, no questions asked. Though we enjoy our own company, we cannot ignore the gripping feeling that we had no business, let alone an excuse to be hanging around this neon tomb. Stewing in our mortal juices, we realize we still have to ride it out awhile yet before we can even shoot some stick.

I resort to the usual route of people watching. At one end of the crusty, whiskey soaked bar, a troop of loud biker types brag about their rap sheets and prison tattoos. My buddy is visibly worried about his honey wagon out back, as these piranhas together could likely strip a Chevy half ton clean to the universals in ten minutes flat. I have no worries. We’re in a Buick for Chris sakes.

At the other end of the bar, an elderly moth-eaten woman fingers her scratch and win tickets at a dollar a dream. In the booths, bingo hall vixens shadow their truck driving sugar daddies. There is also the barstool philosopher, the rhyming ancient mariner, the tragic waif sporting unusable veins, a hitchhiker making his way across the galaxy, and of course, the ever-present pool sharks, playing well to avoid breaking daylight and grabbing a slice of life.

The time has come to break the seal. Social grace bars me from squatting behind the car, so I make my way across the lizard lounge for the girl john. I feel the icy stares from those quietly, and some loudly judging me. I open the door of the can to reveal a toilet so vile; it would surely make Irvine Welsh puke. The situation is desperate however, and I capitulate to the squat and hover to complete the mission. I use a wad of tissue to turn on the water and open the door. Although I was careful about skin to metal contact in that quarantine waiting to happen, quite frankly, I feel nothing but utter horror as legions of Godless parasites are surely now calling me “Host”. Seated at the table and feeling quite violated, I bid my friends fair warning and tell them to forgo social grace and whiz on the tyres.

At this point, a man in a state known as “Arrested Evolution” lumbers over to stare at our tits. A residual odour of stale flatus and fresh wintergreen Copenhagen wafts over us like locusts in a cornfield. This derelict, clearly incapable of manipulating opposable thumbs, much less a toothbrush, utters a depraved and raspy chortle as he unhooks my bra with his rodent like eyes. Amidst the hacking sputters, he asks me if I’m looking for a date.

Stepping down the evolutionary ladder, I give him the international sign, but this sot can’t seem to understand I won’t be enjoying Paradise by the dashboard light with him any time this millennium.

“C’mon baby, our love is God, let’s get some bourbon.” He says amidst more spittle and leering.

“Lemme guess you weevil. Your sole purpose here is to take me back to whatever hole you were hatched from, slide me sideways for a whole 30 seconds before you pass out in a pool of your own vomit.”

“Bitch”, he spat as he careened off in the direction of lonely sheep and a manger.

Rabidly desperate to get out of this hovel I’ve monikered “Satan’s Spittoon”, I realize all I want to do is organize my own beer soaked thoughts. Unfortunately we’re hailed by the pool sharks, hungry for another feeding frenzy.

A guy trying a tad too hard to pass for Bret “The Hitman” Hart, in an Austin 3:14 T-shirt, shakes my hand with bone crushing certainty. My partner shoots our horse at the starting gate and tells them she sucks. Of course, that has several subversive connotations, and elicits a sly knowing glance from both opponents. The other guy decked out in a Garth Brooks T-shirt and a cowboy hat asks me what my story is.

“None”, I say. “Just here for a good time and (hopefully) not a long time.” I proceed to rack, wondering all the while the odds of finding three 12 balls in a bar with only one pool table.

Our adversaries explain the house rules that seem to carry more weight in a WWF Smackdown ring, than any bushwhacker roadhouse. I catch a whiff of rotting corruption and the quiet menace a crippled possum might feel thrown amidst a pack of half starved dingoes.

I won’t bore you with the details of back left bank shots and 12 in the side crap. We lost savagely. We were just another notch on the long phallic post of broken confidence. Blurring our vision and stroking our wilted egos, we drank hard and fast to disguise our distress. Indeed, we made zero effort for the sake of getting out fast. Those bastards knew it, as they knew they had broken us like a pair of Shetland ponies.

Finally, we’re outta there! And God bless this heaven that is a cop less town. Pinned to the nines, we climb Dukes of Hazzard style into the Buick, punch the gas, and peel off a sweet ass brake burn worthy of any nitroburnin’ funny car circuit race. Armed with last night’s empties, the road signs become our rifle range. For kicks, we stop along a pasture to menace the local heifers with a quick round of cow tipping. For breakfast, we even purloin a few sunflowers and a dozen ears of corn.

Exhausted by tearful laughter, we, the “Rural Renegades”, climb back into the “General Lee” for a hotbox before we hit the peddle to the fine G.M. metal and speed into the nearing horizon. And so ends another gripping evening of savage debauchery amidst the teeming throngs of transparent self-promotion, mixed with the perfumes of cheap malts and malice. Tomorrow night portends a keg of Upper Canada in my bathtub. Damn, I love being 17. Double Damn, I never wanna grow up.