The Blues

It resided within one of the oldest parts of the city.  It existed to serve, and it had done well for years.  The men and women who came in attendance drank and jested with one another till the night was nigh and the morning was nil.  Frank was the owner and he had a reputation with the woman.  Almost every other week a stumbler was clamoring into the wrong room with Frank groaning and a waitress on her knees.  The piano player had always had an addiction of the Blues and was always creating a musical note storm.  He was talented.  He could have been somebody, but his true passion lay in the Opium dens at the waterfront and unfortunately the long sightedness in him and been burned out of him by the addiction and the hookers.  Marie Jo was his favorite and even she sauntered into the Elk every once in a while.  Usually tweaked out her mind, willing to fuck anyone for a dime bag and a Guinness.  Once and just once a particular surly patron by the name of Patrick, named for near alliteration’s sake, had taken a crooked swing at a man named James over a lost sports bet and a subsequent poor choice of words.  Instead, he ended up clocking Marie Jo in the nose.  A gush of blood and an equally crooked punch later Frank and the house pianist beat the pulp out Patrick so badly that it was unsure whether the street rats would be able tell if it were James or Patrick once the blood coagulated upon his features.  However, these sights were rare and just like the Elk, the Spark, and the Rum Bin the fights were minimal, the hookers were plentiful, and the sadness was perpetual.

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