ANYTHING FOR CAVIAR A.K.A. COUNTRY MUSIC MASQUERADING AS HEAVY METAL BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE DESTRUCTION ESTABLISHMENT
Ernst was asked, earnestly,
"Could you lift nine diamonds from me, your
Ernst replied, "No, My Soutane" to the vestment
that draped o'er his shoulder and navel so solemnly.
"I haven't the precociousness for such a vain
and ill-comprised endeavor."
Michael, the interrogator, witnessed Ernst and responded with an empty sigh, packed his hopes in his strong leather coat, and made for the emergency exit. His mind was distracted. He pushed the door open as the bouncer approached him to tell him to use the other door. But it was too late. Michael's opening of the emergency door unleashed (via a long string) a choir of thirty-two piñatas, hidden above the dropped cieling (fire code). Soon the entire bar was dressed in cheap candy, some patrons slightly scathed. The bartender looked at Michael aghast, his expression saying: "You busted the Tomalin's great picnic prize, the one they've been preparing for years for the big production for when their daughter gets married."
"Who's the Tomalin's?" Michael asked.
The subsequent hush hinted to Michael that the Tomalins were not only the club's owners, but also that the Tomalins were in fact Mafia. Michael, fully understanding the Mafia, pretended to not know what was going on, dropped the subject, and ran to a corner of the bar to ensue his fake vomiting act. His depiction of the vomiting experience was so true-to-life (and he knew it) that all the weak-hearted believed him to be sick, and nonchalantly managed to refocus their attention to the T.V. playing Country Rock videos above the bar. The video playing was one of the then-new country legend hit phenomenon "Garth Brooks" and his two guitar players bashing guitars together. Michael, safe from punishment and no longer the center of attention, blossomed out of his cowering position to witness the crossover feat of the decade: Country Music masquerading as Heavy Metal brought to you by the Destruction Establishment. Michael's eyes widened. The End of the World is Coming, he thought to himself, so he screamed: "IS THAT ALL THERE IS?"
(For a moment Peggy Lee's knowing smirk flashed in the minds of twelve of the tavern's patrons.) Michael cringed, mouth agape, mesmerized by the horrors. For sedation purposes, he tried to convince himself that the guitar bashing in the Garth Brooks video was an accident, an event spurted on by a deranged fan, or worse yet, a deranged publicist.
Michael deemed it proper to sanction a minute to pray: To pray to realign this greasebin world, to pray to establish sixty seconds of relief against a dimeweed world, to pray that it's all a dream and no shots of Love are ever squandered by pigs who'd do anything for caviar.
Ernst meanwhile (and erstwhile, too) sat oblivious at the end of the bar, delivered himself a mean bacon, sprinkled with toppings fresh from the City Zoo, and burped an ominous bile belch while asking the bartender for glue to affix his nine new diamonds to his soutane.
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