The Pint and the Pen Contest Entry

So, it's been a while since I've been able to post, but, I wanted to share something that I was working on. This is my entry for a contest that Bukowski's Tavern and Harpoon Brewery put together called "The Pint and the Pen Writing Contest. They ask for a short story of 500-750 words. The catch is it must also contain the words "pint" and "pen," along with names "Bukowski" and "Harpoon."

I wrote this in installments, a little bit at a time. At its original completion it was 900 words, and editing took a bit of life out of the story, but nevertheless, I sick of editing and I say that it is done. Enjoy?

Down Went the Whale

They say Charles Bukowski's alter ego was Chinaski, a pint-crashing, poetry-writing, bitch-smacking, barrel-chested, Donkey Kong of a man, who would pick a fight with anyone just to give people a show. And in 1994, when Bukowski died and his body went on to become a crust in the dirt, that alter ego lived on within another man named Ricky Mantis.
Ricky is my roommate. Every day he can be found hunched over, scribbling on mangled papers to hang above his bed. Some would call these scribblings poetry, which is usually questionable behavior around here, but questioning him will probably get your arms broken. So, if you enjoy having broken appendages, go for it.
It wasn't until two months after he moved in that the silence was broken. While in our beds, he turned over, growled his throat clear, and asked, “Can I have a pen?”
“You going to give it back?” I whispered.
“Never.”
“Can I get somethin' in return then? What you got?”
Mantis groaned. Slowly climbing to his knees on his bed, he reached for a paper on his wall and swiped it down with his bear claw. He held the crinkled paper with a stiff arm in front of him. “How about this?”
“What's that?” I asked.
“It's what you've been wondering about.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want it or not?” Mantis asked firmly.
Nerved and confused, the deal was final. A pen for a crumpled piece of paper that was tossed at me in the dark. Too dark to see, I held it for the next day.
At the side of the court, under the sun, waiting to ball, I took my part of the forced barter out from my pocket and read.

Asking her kindly to shut her blow hole may have been my first mistake,
Or was it the smashing of her window that made my fist break?
I can't remember it clearly,
But, my bottle was empty,
And there wasn't another near me,
So, the ground we stood was about to shake.

Luna, the slavestress, kept her head turned,
Patiently ignoring, slowly igniting.
One eye one the orca, and the other on the bottom
Of a glass half full with whiskey.
Grabbing the glass with the right,
The patron opposed,
So, my left left him wailing on the floor.

My reading was interrupted by a pass of the ball that slapped attention into my face. Juanito stood, bent-over laughing. It was his way of telling me it was my turn on the court. I placed the folded paper under the bench. At the game's end it was gone. I feared for the worst.
Later that day, in the mess hall, Juanito stood tall on his seat, while conversations pattered off. I watched with twitching nerves as he read Ricky's poem out loud to everyone. That is when I got to hear the ending and what Mantis had meant when he said, “It's what you've been wondering about.”

Luna, the screamstress, came running toward,
It was about time that her attention turned,
Asking for a drink, she declined.
Asking me to leave, so did I.
Luna pushed, splashing drinks,
Mantis took his fountain ink and
Plunged the pen through her blubber hand.
Luna then sank to the floor.

When police arrived they found,
The front glass window in pain,
A hunted whale of 300lbs and the patron man laying down.
It wasn't hard to see the source,
A six-foot four man bleeding out the fist.

Juanito left the mess hall in a stretcher. Ricky left in Juanito's blood. Mantis went away for two weeks on account of the beating. It was the longest two weeks of my life. If that's what he'd done to Juan, then what would he do to me? I only wondered.
When Mantis did come back, it wasn't long before he asked, “You think I'm going to beat you, huh?” I didn't say anything. “Well, let me tell you something. People make mistakes. That's why we are here. But, Juanito on the other hand,” Mantis paused. “Well, he deserved what he got.”
Finally, I could breathe. “So, you're not going to kill me?”
“No. You are my pen supplier. How else will I write?” Ricky cackled. “Hear they got a nickname for me.”
“Yeah. Ricky 'Harpoon' Mantis. You know, cause you stabbed the fat waitress.”
Ricky laughed harder. “Nice. I like it.”

The End.

I'll be at Bukowski's Tavern in Cambridge to see if I lost on the 26th. See you there?