10 November 2013
Protocol
So I say to the fecker, donchu tell me watta gotta do -
he gives th’ look of death to me, a ‘who in Hell do yah
think you’re talkin’ to’ stare chilled to perfection. Neat
I say, I’ll take it neat with ice, don’ matter if shaken or
stirred, long’s th’ vodka’s 100% Russki. There’s then
an ominous silence n’ he tries t’ out-stare me; waste
of energy as I’m breakin’ out in smiles an’ jivin’ to th’
beat of his now obviously increasing discomfort
He snarls - there’s protocols you’ve duty t’ recognise
mate, n’ only th’ beer’s free, Russki vodka’s not f’ th’
likes of you’n me unless we’re celebrating. We are, I
jeer, you recognise me as a nemesis you’ve always
feared turnin’ up t’ pin you square - so break out the
best for a reunion of our unabashed homogeneity
© 28 October 2013, I. D. Carswell
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