One Way Inn # 2
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