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Vincent Manascalco jolted awake, almost falling off of the bar stool. He immediately put both hands to his nose,
checking it for any serious injuries.
"Have the dream again?" came a voice from farther down the bar. It was Stuart, another bartender at the
Kalahari Tavern. He snickered and brought the bottle of Corona back to his lips.
"It's the third time this week," Vincent grumbled. "Crazy old man stalking me in boxing gloves.
You're a psychology major, can't you figure this out?"
Stuart shrugged. "I told you, it's all that latent-content stuff. We've already figured out that the boxing
gloves represent something about your father."
Vincent stretched his arms above his head. "Dad may've been one of the greatest boxers in Italy, but that
was ages ago," he said and cracked his knuckles. "Doesn't explain the psychotic geriatric that beats
the crap outta me in a freaking gas station, for Christ's sake."
"Don't worry so much," Stuart took another swig. "It's not like some old grandpa is going to rough
you up and break that lovely Italian nose you got."
Vincent chuckled at the sarcasm. He could always count on Stuart to state the obvious. They'd worked at the Kalahari
Tavern for over a year together, and, when the nights weren't busy, would sit at the bar and have a drink or two.
Sometimes one would take a brief nap while the other played look-out for the manager or any thirsty customers.
"Been pretty dead tonight," said Stuart. "Maybe I can leave early."
"Pshhh," remarked Vincent. "Fat chance. It's gonna be me." He got up off the barstool and pulled
up the zipper to his leather pants.
"Where you goin'?"
"To get me some aspirin and go to bed, man," groaned Vincent.
"Awww, not gonna stay for the ladies? Happy Hour's not done yet," Stuart looked at his watch. It was
only 6:20.
"Stu," said Vincent. "They're all yours. All the beer, too. I can pick up girls anywhere."
He ran a hand through his thick, black hair as he grabbed his coat and headed towards the exit.
Stuart shook his head and went behind the bar to sneak another bottle of Corona.
The '77 black Jaguar practically flew down Highway 12, passing every vehicle that wasn't going at least 70 miles
per hour.
"We there yet?" asked the passenger, Benny.
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