The tragedy of entropy I

Skipper and another kid named Barry Banders had ripped him off three years back, but he was also pissed at his cousin’s indiscrete mention of his growing. “Naw, Skippy. People like you and Barry Banders taught me the folly of my ways.”

Sarah said, “What’s that mean Skipper?” Skipper accepted the joint and took a hit. He turned red, blushed like a boy.

Skipper hid behind the smoke he exhaled and did not answer Sarah’s question. Instead he said, “Man, Caleb, you want some liquid thorazine?”

“Fuck no. I mean fuck no thank you, I suppose.”

Just then a wizened harridan entered the now crowded Women’s room, unceremoniously dropped her ragged drawers and plopped her ass on the toilet. When she looked up at Caleb, Skipper and Sarah, she grinned, revealing many missing teeth, and the Sybil like Medusa cackled at them.

Skipper said, “Uh, well, cuz, if ya don’t want that...thing, at least let me buy you a beer.”

“That’ll do,” Caleb said edging toward the door. “Just don’t dump any of that liquid...uh, detergent you were telling me about in it.”

In a voice ravaged by smoking industrial strength chemicals, the prophetess crowed, “Lemme hit ‘at joint befo’ ya go and leave me here ALL ALONE.” She batted her black painted crow’s feet at them as beneath her came the sound of her pooping.

Caleb handed her the joint and said, “It’s all yours,” as he and the others fairly leaped out of the women’s rest room.

Skipper bought Caleb a beer, and he and Sarah started playing pool. As that was going on, a couple entered the bar, but Caleb didn’t even look up at them.

Then behind him, someone said, “Is that you, Caleb?”

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