"Bagman Blues" (a Richard Applegate yarn)
by SamHaiNe

It’s one of those wet nights.
Wet. Wet. Fucking wet.

Jackie likes this shit but, I can’t stand it.

My socks are wet and there’s nothing good to eat. Only thing selling food is Taco carts and after spending a few days in Sonora making this money exchange, anybody can take them tortillas and shove’em up their asses. Where’s the hoagies, the beef patties, the plump avocados? Pizza would be God right now.

No matter.

I did my job and now I’m bringing home my pay. A fresh bag and some celebrating is in order.

The Owl’s Head Pub should be popping off. Time to flick this friggin’ cigarette and go in, already.

Looks were deceiving. A couple of raggedy bitches and the owners mother slumped over the bar drinkin out of an aluminum mixer... Fresh blackeyes from her Uptown sugar baby, no doubt. Jim was tending still sweating out whatever Kool-aid he was popping into his toes; the remaining toes that dieabetes left him. Bones was there but too busy canoodling with some tomboy, or I think it was, over in the corner. The Owl’s Head had up their Christmas decorations and were playing Holiday music. I hate Holiday music.

“What’s under the counter, Jim?”

He waved me off and smacked his lips. I asked him again, “What’s under the counter?” I knew he had some type of Blue label or Scotch hidden for just himself.

“Stop being the son of this black tooth whore and give me a shot of the secret stuff” I shouted.

Jimmy reaches down under the wood, “Here’s what I got” and pulls out a Walther. One of those James Bond burners.

“That’s it” I told him.

I grabbed his wrist and yanked him over the bar and spiked his face into it.

“Don’t you ever pull an airsoft on me ever again!”

His mother was laughing out loud by the time I reached under the bar to pull up the bottle - and I pulled up a dud. A bottle of screw top wine. Black-cherry chardonay. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. There was no friggin way I was gonna waste time here. So I slid the bottle over to Mother inferior and took my business elsewhere.


Then that awful feeling comes over me and I remember the Dragon lady is still open for business. A massage would be just the thing I need. .... I always tell myself to just go to Celeste’s place and pay full price for one of the girls but, Im feeling a lil tight and absolutely cheap at the moment.

Dragon Lady had her own relaxation spa not too far from here in Midtown. By the time I got to the door, Genie was already clocking out and told me Kandy was inside still serving. Bet.

Flicking a compulsive dime into the department store water fountain by the door, I skipped into the first bathroom to piss and bird bath some of my kibbles and bits for the massage. Cuz nothing is more embarassing than your massage therapist finding Coco Puffs during a session.

She says, “Hello Richie”.

Sup, Kandy. I tell her to give me the 30 minute treatment and hand her Forty Dollars.

I’m 220lbs of bad food and soda pop but, a few lathers of hot oil and deep tissue care and I become 220lbs of jell-o and melted pork fat.

Kandy looks like you’re average freshman at some posh art university. Convincing herself that this is just a stepping stone to higher learning and that Fashion career. And why not? I have no problem helping out the smaller businessman. Feels good to pay it forward, and even better when i’m laying on my stomach getting rubbed all over my body and twice as good as soon as I open my legs a little wider so she can graze my stepping stone and chorizo while she’s rubbing out my tension.

After a few light touches and a hotwash from the table shower she tells me to turn over. I love this part.

She touches me lightly with her finger nails and makes a motion with her hand asking, “You want?”. Sure.

Forty more bucks and she’s working it. But, for some reason my stomach starts rumbling and I can’t seem to concentrate on the coming while my body just wants to go and eat. “Fuck”, I say quiet. But, fuck it, lLet her finish. Ignore your gut feeling. Let her finish and.........

Now i’m feeling a different kind of pressure. Kandy decided it was a good idea to shove a finger up my can and approach the battle on both fronts. The fuck? Now she’s stroking harder, damn near hammerfisting my pelvis. Fucking hurts. Like being a lubed up bowling ball. Fuck this shit.

I stop the process and she starts crying. I assure her it’s okay. It’s not her, I... just.. wasn’t... feeling good. I dropped another couple of twenties for her and hugged her.. Off I went..



I eat the first Taco I can get. Fuck me, right?
But, now i’m horny and I wanna bust. I should just go home....

(Dramatic Pause)

The Peep Show at VideoRumble was still open. The place always smells of bleach and was always empty. The video viewers in the booths took tokens but they didn’t waste your money; 15mins a token and 80 channels of choice dvd, blue-ray and weirdo freaky wicked VHS clips.

Except tonight. All the booths were occupied and I wasn’t going into the ones with the obvious HOLE in the wall.. I guarantee there’s no side missions there. I pace down the isle and not one vacancy. Then one of the doors opens ominously at the end and there’s a pudgy all glass-eyed piece of shit sitting in a plastic chair staring at me. I tell him, I’m not the fucking one. He says “FINE” and whips out this sandwich bag full of blow and starts banging bumps off a letter opener.

I’m not homophobic and definitely not queer but seeing that I figured, “When in Rome”.

Closed the door behind me and turned the lock. I grabbed the bag of yayo and took my first blast. Immediately, my throat closed tight and where was hunger suddenly became this phantom pain of a shit that will never come. This was good stuff. My head cocked back into the corner of the booth and my jaw and tongue were doing their thing in some cocaine-fueled frenzy. Two more bumps from the bag and I barely remembered this dude undoing my trousers. I barely even noticed if he was even a human. From where I was standing he looked like an old thumb. Like an ewok was trying hug me if not blow me.

Then the door swings open cuz the lock sure as shit wasn’t efficiently installed. And in walks in this Erik Estrada lookalike slamming the door behind him. Now there’s three grown men in a booth made for just one and both these honey badgers are going at it while I’m shoved into the corner with my elbows pushed into my sides; standing there with a sandwich bag half-filled with cocaine and my belt and zipper unfastened, thinking, “What?”
Erik Estrada still mouth fucking the fucker, looks at me and asks me if this is my Sub or some shit like that. And I say, “I don’t know what the fuck is happening”.
“How did I get here?”
“Where’d he get this blow?”
“What does this mean?”
“I should not have eaten that taco”
“I could’ve just had a Hoagie”


When I got home. I barely spent any of my money. I wasn’t drunk. I was still geek’ed up but, what did I do? My wife says, “HELLO”. But, I just jump in the shower and sit under the hot steam. Letting the shower circulate the rest of the jitters out of my system.

The shower does what it’s supposed to do. I get into my sweats and my wife pours me some corn flakes. She asks if I had a “fun business trip?”.... “Yeah, it was cool.”

She then comments on the floral shirt I picked up while in Sonora, “What you turning fag on me?”

“Sheddap”

“Oh! Ladyboys it is, huh”

I look at her. She looks at me. We laugh. We hug. We kiss.
It’s good to be back home.