Pathetic

A Chapter by Griffin

Roger was a normal pathetic guy, living in a normal pathetic city, with a normal pathetic life that we've all heard thousands of times. He was an average pathetic high school graduate 'saving money for college' or as we all know, living his pathetic existence on minimum wage. His parents died in a car accident when he was 19, his sister moved to New York City to attend a liberal arts 4 year school, and the rest of his family were so pathetic, they didn't bother trying to even stay in contact with poor Roger. Yes, that means his grandma Jackie, grandpa Maurice, his other gram-gram Petunia, and his grandpa Travis, his uncle Charlie, his cousin Jack, his other cousin Jack, his aunt Louise, and lastly even his sister Marionette never kept up with talking to him.

He had always been a bit of an ‘ugly ducking’ but he never really sprouted up into the beautiful swan. His dark brown hair has always been matted down by the disgusting grease, his entire body had always been pale to the point of being translucent, and his teeth were never straight and his family could never afford braces. He was afflicted a terrible acne in his youth that carried into his adult hood but ultimately died down some. Roger was somewhat of a pathetic sized man in several categories; 5 foot 8, 153 pounds (so really skinny), and undersized under the sheets, even the ‘motion of the ocean’ couldn’t save his pathetic ‘ship’.

Now 22, living in a pathetic studio apartment, working a pathetic minimum wage job as a street vendor selling hot dogs, with his one pathetic friend from 'work' Dirk, whom he goes to a depressingly pathetic Irish pub with every Saturday.

Dirk, also known as Derik Vansis, a man hailing from a Germanic heritage, was the only person who really talked to him as Dirk also didn’t have many friends. He was a pretty face but never did well in school, especially after he ran away from his abusive household at the bright and cheery age of 11. Living on the streets for five and a half years before moving in with an 18 year old friend/dealer who got his own apartment to get away from his abusive household. The 5 foot 11, 183 pound, blue eyed blond haired Aryan son-of-a-b***h was popular with the ladies. Sadly he was such a pathetic dolt he could never realize they were flirting with him.

This 'bar' was as pathetic as Roger and Dirk's lives combined. The baby vomit-green paint on the walls was chipping in sheets of three inches revealing the horrid excuse for construction par with building codes. The door, or what would be considered the door, could also be called the rickety sheet of plywood with a s**t brown paint job over it under the archway by the street which, just like Roger, was a pathetic excuse for anything and everything. The stench, or cloud, as it amassed into a vaporous gas visible a quarter-mile away, had a certain BO hint as well as a mildew, onion breath, and cheap, skanky perfume odor. The reason this gas was only slightly visible was because there were only 4, I'll repeat that, 4 industrial hanging lights hanging from what would pathetically be called the ceiling. This 'ceiling' would be more appropriately called a few beams of wood holding up plywood with the same paint job of the 'door'. Speaking of doors, there was one more leading to the basement, a metal one with a very large and obvious dent from the inside which chipped away the grey/blue paint to reveal black iron which obviously rusted over the years. No one went in the basement that wasn't at least 6 foot 2, 210 pounds, and covered in tattoos, whether it be a skin head, or the black street thug, it was all the same.

What brought the rowdy patrons of this s**t stain was the booze. Anyone and everyone could buy booze here the owners couldn't care less if the person buying it was a 94 year old Caucasian sex addict or a 9 year old crack baby, money is money. The main proprietor, Randy “The Bad-A*s” Portis as he was known in the fight club in the basement, scared and scarred more than the average brigade of police officers in his days of snorting cocaine.

Roger and Dirk came here because they just got off of their pathetic jobs and went in their traditional fashion to the Bailey's Irish Pub where the party had been 'going' since 3 in the afternoon.

“Dana! A round of shots for me and Dirk!” Roger howls at the skinny but perky 20-something manning the down the fort, alone, against all of the drunken 'under classed' citizens known across the nation as “the poor”. If you wanted a Presidential Campaign, the first thing you want to do is talk one of the people in this pub because just being within a 100 foot radius of this decrepit excuse for a bar would get you enough brownie point with the media you'd be set for the next year.

“Gimme' a sec, boys!” Dana screeches back in dismay as she gets four other orders.

Turning round to Dirk, whom situated himself next to Roger on the pitiful excuse for a bar stool, Roger says “Today'll be the day I finally ask her.”

“Do it!” Dirk replies, eye-raping and lip biting his way from foot, to tight bottom, to head, and back to tight bottom, of Dana Basker. “I'm ‘gonna to if you don't!”

“You've'nt got the galls!”

“More than you, Roger!”
Right as Dirk said that Dana finally comes over with the round of pathetic, knock off Budweiser (which does actually exist). The tight, perky brunette puts the glasses down with a loud thud and spills some of the cheap booze onto the table. In normal bars, this’d be a problem, but not here; no one washes the counters.

Taking a hefty sip of the toilet water/beer, Roger musters up all the courage he has and lobs the glass back to the bar with a heavier thud than Dana. He looks Dana square in the eyes and says “Would you go on a date with me?” as if such a beautiful damsel would.

“Sure!” she shockingly says immediately after relieving a load from Roger’s shoulders, “What do you have in mind?”

This was a good question, because the only place Roger ever goes to is the pub Dana works at, and Dirk is the only person he ever goes there with. The disgruntled look upon his face showed evidently how his pathetic mind’s cogs and gears grind.

Finally he says “How about we walk around the alleys with a few beers in hand?” (What a pathetic date).

Pathetic more is how Dana says “Sure!” again.

Dirk, on the sidelines is watching all of this with a very large grin that was obviously fake because he hadn’t gotten his dick wet in something like a year and a half.

“When should we meet up?” Dana asks.

“In front of the bar after your shift?” Roger pathetically pulls out of his a*s.

After a few hours of drinking figurative piss and stumbling out of the bar to hobble around the neighborhood with his equally drunk friend, Roger remembers he’s is supposed to meet Dana in front of the bar. That was supposed to be thirty minutes ago, a mile away. Still drunk, he and Dirk struggle to get back there, only to find the front of the pub clear of any and all women; only piss drunk men, the homeless who seek refuge in front of the place with ‘liquor’. There’s even Paulie, the bipolar schizophrenic who everyone in the homeless community takes care off as one of their brothers or sons.

Slurring his speech, Roger mumbles “Weeeere’s Da- Dana?” looking around for his first date in the pathetically lonesome months preceding today.

The first person to answer after the eternity of waiting (5 seconds) was one of the migrants, a middle aged blonde by the name of Ally who trapped and ate rats to survive. “Dana ran off ‘cause she was pissy some jack off stood her up.” She doesn’t know who the ‘jack off’ was