We are looking for corporate sponsorship; we are looking to have three main sponsors of this nature. We implore these corporations to not judge us on our company name, but realize our mission. To network “nightlife,” Bars, Clubs, DJs, Bands, Bartenders, Bar owners, promoters, ECT.

We do this for free, looking to you, Miller or Budweiser, Jim Beam or Jack Daniels. Help us help you. At the very least your small sponsorship will allow Boozen to expand and create our network. We will begin by contacting all bar management in the state of Florida. With your small contribution we will advertise the “shit” out of your product. Excuse me for being so vulgar but I believe strongly that “With your credibility and my idea, the sky would be the limit.”  

Please contact:

Alan Lund President of Boozen.com

wasted@boozen.com

Lundf19@erau.edu

CHAPTER II: HAZARDOUS HANK

INT. ONE WAY INN-NIGHT

A man, roughly in his early 50’s, shaggy, shoulder length hair, wearing a Hawaiian island button down sits with his back toward us in what seems to be an eye soar of a joint. The man seems to be conversing with someone across from him but we can’t make him out due to the enormous size of the man sitting at the bar. This man, a veteran and well respected drunk amongst the drunkards goes by the name of Hank. Hazardous Hank.

HANK: So I go to see the doc the other day about this problem I’ve been havin and…

Bartender: And…

Hank: Well ya know it’s a tad bit personal and I don’t know if I…

Bartender: Who the hell do ya think your foolin big fella. You’ve been comin in here cryin me rivers since as far back as I can remember. My Christ I’m practically like your brother for Christ fuckin sake.

Hank: Let’s get something straight buddy the only reason I come in here is because its close and I’m a full blown lush. The only reason I tell you anything is because well… you’re the only object in sight. Do me a personal one and consider yourself my most reliable source of venting. Don’t go thinkin you should get a fuckin ribbon pinned on your shirt neitha. Sheit, I’d go see a psychiatrist but it would put a huge cut into my drinking budget and that doesn’t sound like the answer either. Sheit, drankin is the only sanity this eggshell mind knows.

Bartender: I’m sorry you feel that way Hank. But if you don’t mind I’ll give you my final piece of advice.

Hank-Well, if it’s any consolation to you I truly do mind but since you did insert the word, final in there I think I’ll be able to maintain.

Bartender: What?

Hank: Lay it on me sad sack.

Bartender: Ever consider a punching bag?

HANK: You sound like my therapist when I was attending anger management.

Hank begins rolling up his sleeves to reveal his fist to the bartender.

Hank: Look at the size of these baseball mits

Bartender: Jesus H. Christ those things roll like fuckin wheel barrels…

Hank: Yeah, I’ve purchased every kind of punchin bag you can think of..

Hank: Put holes in em the size of Jenna Jamesons snatch too.

Hank: The standard weight is about, what, 100 to 150 pounds?

Bartender: And?

Hank: Well let’s just say the sand inside the bag was later donated to my brothers kids sandbox.

Bartender: You should get a job workin the door man.

Hank: Naw, won’t let me drink on the job.

Bartender: ya, who would want to have to go to work sober anyway? So, back to your problem.

HANK: Problem?

Bartender: The doctor’s office?

Hank: you’re a nosey little fucker are you sonny? You know what your problem is, you need to get laid.

Hank: Well like I was telling ya I went to the docs office because I was having an erection disfunction…

Bartender- What cock can’t stand on its own anymore?

Hank: Fuck No… I don’t know how to get the motherfucker down!

By Michael Milano

IT was rolling in on Midnight but the joint still looked the same as it did when I came shuffling in here at about eight. Or was it seven? Anyhow…It was raining cats and dogs and there was a tornado warning being broadcasted all over the airwaves so I felt it suitable to seek the closest and safest of shelter.

Just as I was becoming hopeless I saw a neon glow piercing through the pernicious storm. I couldn’t quite make out what the neon light was trying to reveal to me due to the violent surge of precipitation and the fact that I left my glasses at home next to my wedding ring on a night stand on a ranch in a little town in Nevada. The closer I got the more the neon light seem to congest together forming a saturated blob that glowed of muddy hue in the most morose evening I’d seen in years.

Without hesitation I pulled in and sprinted toward the door. The place was dilapidated and reminded me of something eerie, such as the Bates Motel or the hotel ballroom Jack Torrance was compelled by in the movie, “The Shining.” Still, I really had no choice in the matter. It was the closest shelter and it what almost imperative I got off the road as quickly as possible. As I entered through the front door it came to my awareness that there was no one in sight. The word “vacancy” was lit up in the front window like the fourth of July and there was absolutely no sign of life. I was drowsy from the road and bitter from the frigid rain that was coming down in heaps. I was becoming both frugal and perturbed. I saw the bell on the desk gleaming at me and so like any impatient asshole I slammed on that bell relentlessly.

“Hello, service here. Hello!”

No more than a second later I heard a low, screeching voice somewhat comparable to that of the crypt keeper but just a tad bit more squeaky and modest.

“How can I be at your service this evening fine sire?

Where the hell did it come from? I spun around the room like a madman on a merry-go-round. There was nothing. At this point my heart was palpitating like a drum and I had my pecker in a head lock to keep from pissing myself. The storm worsened but to nothing of this degree. Was I going mad? I needed a drink. That’s it, a glorious drink. The answer to all unanswered problems.

“Sire, how can I be at your assistance?”

The sound seemed to be coming from down below me with the impact of a geyser busting from out the Earth.

“Sire, I don’t have all evening.”

And with that I detected where the ghoulish voice was coming. I motioned cautiously to the front desk and peeked over to view to this night what was the most frightening, yet, most fascinating thing I’d ever gazed my eyes on. A man, or dwarf for that matter standing no more than three foot tall with small, black, pebble shaped eyes with the same jovial facial characteristics as ol Saint Nick. At least, that is what I remember before blacking out.

By Michael Milano