Post by Cletus & Big Jim on Jan 19, 2013 22:55:58 GMT -5
GHW cameras peer way up to catch a glimpse of the sign of the infamous Black Horse Tavern.
The camera returns to a view of Pleasant Street and passes a pair of gruff smokers, taking a few final drags on the stubs of dying cigarettes. Into the tavern itself, there’s hardly a soul in the place and the beats of Marcy’s Playground resonate throughout, pumped from a jukebox near the door.
Nearby, a few of the patrons play the video lottery terminals. They seem totally ignorant of the camera probing their actions, as they mindlessly pump more and more money into the always hungry machine, hoping for their lucky break. Near the bar, the grizzled bartender sits with several of his older customers, carrying on a conversation begun eons ago and likely never to finish satisfactorily. Near the mid-point of the establishment, a young couple sits alone, sipping cheap draft and anxiously awaiting the awkward fumblings that are bound to ensue before this night concludes. Far in the back, an old fellow, in a suit that matches his years, runs palsied hands through his thinning hair, stares at the young couple and weeps for the loss of time and what once was. Someone decides to cue up Tom Petty…
Before arriving at the old man’s table, the camera takes a left through a side door and into something of a lobby. A fine set of stairs, weathered and worn with age, lead to the upper levels of the building. Seated on a recliner, his eyes intently focused on the television before him and his face slack with apathy, a middle-aged man ignores the camera, much like everyone else encountered thus far. The camera looks up the stairs and begins to climb. A dozen steps up, the man at the TV beckons, “You lookin’ for Jimmy?” The camera heads back down to confer, but once within sight of the proprietor, he, without taking his eyes from his program, continues, “You lookin’ for Jimmy, he’s in room 12.”
Back on the assent again and all is silence save for the burbling of the television below and the cameraman’s footfalls. He reaches a landing but outside of a mattress leaning idly by the wall and a few closed doors, there isn’t much to see. The journey continues up a second flight of stairs and the silence is broken by faint sounds, only barely picked up by the camera’s sound equipment. Through another landing and past a small kitchen with a hole in the wall, the sound grows in intensity until it’s clear that room 12 is the source of the commotion.
The events begin to intensify and the orgiastic moans and cries continue, now mingled with the noise of rusted bed springs from the room next door, the tell-tale sound of a man in his own hand. As the fun and games in room 12 reach their crescendo, the voice of Big Jim is plainly heard.
The horn! Use the horn damn ya!
Instead of the characteristic sighs of passion the woman’s voice dies away and is replaced by the beseeching whine of the cow moose, brought to life no doubt with the aid of a birch bark horn.
To these cries are added Big Jim’s own feral hoots, mingling to provide what may be best described as an erection-eliminating cocktail of the bestial and the absurd. Light now flicks on under the door and the ecstasy swiftly transforms into agony.
Content that the carnal festivities have come to an end, the cameraman knocks on the door and is urged to enter. Finding the door unlocked, he does so and catches a brief, fleeting, glimpse of Jim’s partner as she covers her nudity and rushes into the adjoining bathroom. Discarded bottles of Boone’s wine lay strewn on the floor, while a bottle of Great White stands propped against the radiator. A suitcase, filled with all manner of adult paraphernalia, sits, cracked, in the corner. In the midst of it all, slouched on the bed and barely covered by a ragged pink sheet, is Big Jim, aglow in his post-coital glory. Sitting next to him is the bloody head of a bull moose, its impressive rack of antlers the envy of any hunter and its milky dead eyes having born witness to the sexual conquest just now achieved. A smile rolls across Jim’s demented visage.
Get Fucked? Damn good advice Jerry, maybe you ain’t so stupid after all. See you Thursday…
The camera returns to a view of Pleasant Street and passes a pair of gruff smokers, taking a few final drags on the stubs of dying cigarettes. Into the tavern itself, there’s hardly a soul in the place and the beats of Marcy’s Playground resonate throughout, pumped from a jukebox near the door.
Nearby, a few of the patrons play the video lottery terminals. They seem totally ignorant of the camera probing their actions, as they mindlessly pump more and more money into the always hungry machine, hoping for their lucky break. Near the bar, the grizzled bartender sits with several of his older customers, carrying on a conversation begun eons ago and likely never to finish satisfactorily. Near the mid-point of the establishment, a young couple sits alone, sipping cheap draft and anxiously awaiting the awkward fumblings that are bound to ensue before this night concludes. Far in the back, an old fellow, in a suit that matches his years, runs palsied hands through his thinning hair, stares at the young couple and weeps for the loss of time and what once was. Someone decides to cue up Tom Petty…
Before arriving at the old man’s table, the camera takes a left through a side door and into something of a lobby. A fine set of stairs, weathered and worn with age, lead to the upper levels of the building. Seated on a recliner, his eyes intently focused on the television before him and his face slack with apathy, a middle-aged man ignores the camera, much like everyone else encountered thus far. The camera looks up the stairs and begins to climb. A dozen steps up, the man at the TV beckons, “You lookin’ for Jimmy?” The camera heads back down to confer, but once within sight of the proprietor, he, without taking his eyes from his program, continues, “You lookin’ for Jimmy, he’s in room 12.”
Back on the assent again and all is silence save for the burbling of the television below and the cameraman’s footfalls. He reaches a landing but outside of a mattress leaning idly by the wall and a few closed doors, there isn’t much to see. The journey continues up a second flight of stairs and the silence is broken by faint sounds, only barely picked up by the camera’s sound equipment. Through another landing and past a small kitchen with a hole in the wall, the sound grows in intensity until it’s clear that room 12 is the source of the commotion.
The events begin to intensify and the orgiastic moans and cries continue, now mingled with the noise of rusted bed springs from the room next door, the tell-tale sound of a man in his own hand. As the fun and games in room 12 reach their crescendo, the voice of Big Jim is plainly heard.
The horn! Use the horn damn ya!
Instead of the characteristic sighs of passion the woman’s voice dies away and is replaced by the beseeching whine of the cow moose, brought to life no doubt with the aid of a birch bark horn.
To these cries are added Big Jim’s own feral hoots, mingling to provide what may be best described as an erection-eliminating cocktail of the bestial and the absurd. Light now flicks on under the door and the ecstasy swiftly transforms into agony.
Content that the carnal festivities have come to an end, the cameraman knocks on the door and is urged to enter. Finding the door unlocked, he does so and catches a brief, fleeting, glimpse of Jim’s partner as she covers her nudity and rushes into the adjoining bathroom. Discarded bottles of Boone’s wine lay strewn on the floor, while a bottle of Great White stands propped against the radiator. A suitcase, filled with all manner of adult paraphernalia, sits, cracked, in the corner. In the midst of it all, slouched on the bed and barely covered by a ragged pink sheet, is Big Jim, aglow in his post-coital glory. Sitting next to him is the bloody head of a bull moose, its impressive rack of antlers the envy of any hunter and its milky dead eyes having born witness to the sexual conquest just now achieved. A smile rolls across Jim’s demented visage.
Get Fucked? Damn good advice Jerry, maybe you ain’t so stupid after all. See you Thursday…