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About Bologna

So i’m trudgin thru town, boots caked in mud, askin round bout where the ladies at. Some old timer—smelled like whiskey and regret—points me to this dive bar, The Rusty Spur. “All that is human can sink…”—that’s the vibe there, straight outta the movie. Dark, smoky, eyes followin me like i’m prey. I spot her—red lipstick, skirt shorter than a miner’s fuse. She’s workin the room, all sly smiles and sharp glances. I’m like, “Well, hello, darlin—business or pleasure?” She laughs, says, “Both, if ya got coin.” Got me chucklin—girl’s got sass, i respect that.

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We’re working away, and I’m trying to focus, but then I hear this loud crash. I look over, and Marco’s knocked over a stack of wood. I’m like, “Really, man? You’re gonna break my stuff now?” He just laughs it off. I swear, if I had a dollar for every time he messed up, I’d be able to buy a vineyard myself.

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