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Dumpster RabbittZ part one - Fiction Serial by Bryan Higby and Ricky D. Snyder

Chapter One

“And that was Flock of Seagulls with ‘I Ran’, which is just what your old DJ buddy Randy Bliss has to do now. The clock ticks midnight and Randy’s gotta skedaddle on out of here, but as always folks we here at WWAY Radio The CALM would like to remind all of you not to panic. Just, stay calm,” DJ Randy Bliss’s deep melodic voice rolled across the airwaves as he cut off the mic. Randy motioned to his sound engineer to kill the live feed as a radio promo kicked in.

He removed his headphones from his brown permanent. The small unbreakable black comb sitting on the dash of his sound studio whispered to him. Randy lifted the comb and ran a few strokes through his thick 80’s style mustache. That was his thing, the 1980’s. WWAY The CALM was a radio station stuck in that retro era. Randy didn’t care, he liked the thick permanent that he wore with the colorful baggy era clothes. His thick mustache always received compliments on the street when the chicks saw him. Yeah, he loved the 80’s.

“You going home?” His sound engineer, Brad, asked as he entered Randy’s musical domain.

Randy leaned back lighting a cigarette, American Spirit, his favorite.

“Might stop down to Marty’s for a night cap. You?”

“Yeah Marty’s is the only decent joint in the whole town, but nah, gotta get home and kiss the wife. Maybe get a little nuggy before I hit the hay,” Brad laughed like a fool.

Randy smiled, but Brad seemed to notice the irritation on his DJ’s face. Old Randy had been divorced twice.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Night,” Brad said placing a stack of CD’s on the dashboard and exiting the studio.

“See ya.”

Randy watched the engineer exit his studio switching off the lights as he disappeared into the darkness of the hallway beyond the glass studio space. The DJ dragged off his cigarette for another couple of minutes in silence before snuffing it out. Randy rose on almost numb legs. He had been sitting at the mic all night. Yawning, he had a full bladder to attend to and then he would brave the freezing late March temperature and drive home to his small place on Ramsey Street, after a stop at Marty’s Pub. He never relished the idea of going home alone. It was damned quiet and lonely on Ramsey Street. It wasn’t as bad since February was in his rear view. Valentine’s Day had come and gone and bunny thumping Easter was on the horizon.

As Randy walked through the deserted WWAY studio he saw many of the employees had tacked up Easter decorations in their office spaces. Cubicles were cluttered with chickens and bunny decor. A large bowl of Easter candy cascading with jelly beans sat on the station’s front counter. Randy snatched up a handful of the sweet beans as he walked to the men’s room.

The jon was practically spotless. Tony, their cleaning guy, did a stellar job around the joint, keeping them up to their eyeballs in toilet paper and Lysol spray. Randy figured that he’d need that Lysol now because that full bladder seemed to have sunken into his shitter. What was that joke about getting older? A guy says, ‘You know you’re getting old when you hold a piss so long that it turns into a shit.’

Randy grinned as he walked to the furthest stall from the door holding the Lysol can in one hand and several jelly beans in the other. He dropped the beans into his pocket for later. Randy would also be dropping some aged old poop into the shitter tonight and thank Tony for the Lysol.

* * *

Across town in CarLowDen’s most respectable watering hole, Marty’s Pub, I was washing away my blues. My trusty Mead notebook on the bar was getting drowned by my booze. Didn’t matter since all the crap I wrote was garbage anyway. For those of you reading this, in case you’re keeping score this is John Friend. You may remember me from the prologue of this here story. You might also remember I mentioned I’m not much of a writer, but I sure am a quality drinker.

“Norm, another shot please,” I told the barman.

Norm was a big burly fella with a heart of gold. He was also the only barman around town who would take me on credit. Since the CarLowDen Golf Course shut down a few years ago because of that housing crash I’ve been out of work. Occasionally I’ll sell a short story to the men’s mags like Dude, or Swank, but mostly I collect rejection slips along with my unemployment check, which is getting scarcer and scarcer. Like I said, I’m not much of a writer and CarLowDen isn’t shit for employment, but it’s the home I know.

“You got the green to pay for this Johnny boy? Bonnie’s been riding my rear letting people off on their tabs,” Norm asked leaning across the bar staring into my bloodshot eyes. Norm would be intimidating if he wasn’t such a teddy bear.

“It’s on me,” a voice called from the front door.

All eyes turned to see the 1980’s fashioned local celeb and my good buddy, DJ Randy Bliss. Boy did it feel like bliss seeing his friendly familiar face grace this dive. Randy walked down the short steps to the main pub room floor and made his leisurely way to the bar where I was seated inches away from Norm’s thick beard. I saw how the barman was grinning. He loved Randy too.

“Well if it isn’t this town’s usual winos sitting front and center,” Randy said, gripping my shoulders friendly-like. He glanced down the bar at three old regulars, Bill, Dave, and Ted, who were already sleeping on the wooden counter.

“Yeah, yeah okay. I drink and you pay. My Easter Angel,” I chuckled between shots.

Randy dropped down on the red stool next to me and tapped the counter.

“Beer barman,” Randy said.

“Barman,” Norm laughed, shaking his head. As if the WWAY DJ had never come into this joint before.

Snatching a bowl of peanuts, Randy started gobbling them down.

“Hey, Normy you got any burgers back there? This cat is scratching.”

Randy rubbed his skinny stomach, pulling the small bowl of peanuts closer.

“Sorry Ran, but kitchen’s closed after ten,” Norm said, blushing.

Randy hesitated with a peanut nearly to his lips. He exchanged a surprised look with me and Norm.

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