A little writing that leaves the taste of tequila in your mouth
As usual, Carter set a blistering pace. In less than thirty minutes he’d introduced himself to over one hundred patrons of the bar, inviting each one over to the table for a birthday drink. Each bartender got a brief visit and a generous tip. He ascended the bandstand and made the acquaintance of each member of Fleetwood Macaroni. His rapid circumnavigation of the establishment complete, he sat down with a contented sigh. No congressional candidate stumped harder than Carter when a good time was at stake.
The sunburned customers crowding the establishment still irritated Rudy. The tequila trickling through his brain hadn’t done its job yet. He hadn’t stopped thinking. That was what they were all here for. Right? To stop thinking for a while.
So he tried. He tried not to think about the anglers in the photographs on the wall. He tried not to think about the mounted…
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