Going Shogun Read Online Free Page B

avoid.
    Forklift rampages into a
coffin-sized parking space like a pro and says, “Big lines mean big fun,” and I
start to balk but he’s already out of the car and agitating down the sidewalk
before I can say anything.  I catch up to him quick-like and from the tooth-accented
smile on his face, I can tell he’s already forgotten about the dead body and
our giant sized possibility of prison time.  He’s in breakdance mode, which
means I have to get ready for a long night.
    He stops at the front of the line,
and for a second, I think he’s gonna cut and piss off about five hundred
pseudo-angry people.  But instead, he approaches the doorman, this huge guy
with biceps the size of my thighs, and says, “Blowtorch, my man,” as they
exchange a fancy handshake with a bustle of movements.
    Blowtorch smiles and says, “Speak of
the Devil.  I was just telling Knife here,” pointing to an equally large wooly
mammoth guy, “about the time you whizzed on the grill over at Shaman’s.”
    Knife says, “Been me, I’d’ve cut
your wang off and fried it up like a kielbasa.”
    “Jesus, a guy hogties his reputational
fortitude one time and gets ostrich-sized all over the settlements,” Forklift
says.  He laughs and throws a couple of fake tummy punches at Blowtorch.  Knife
laughs with them and I’m stuck standing there getting a bunch of angry glances
from the people in line.
    I forgot to mention the fact that
Forklift knows everybody and everybody knows him.  As you can imagine, this has
its upside, but mostly weighs heavier on the downside, like an unbalanced
Scales of Justice.  I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve either talked people
out of kicking his ass, or gotten mine kicked trying to help him.  He’s yet to
reimburse me for the cap on my chipped tooth. 
    Forklift says, “How ‘bout it,
Torch?  Let me and my friend in for a bit, go shogun on some cool waters?”
    Blowtorch pulls the rope back and
says, “Sure thing, bro.  But if you gotta take a leak, do it in the restroom.”
    “True.”
    “Or on that blue-haired bartender
they call Smurf.  He could use a bath.”
    “Diggity bop.”
    I follow him, thanking the goons and
shaking hands with them as I pass. 
    Once we’re in, I immediately
understand why Forklift wanted to come here.  Out on the dance floor, there are
so many multicolored heads of hair bouncing around to this feather-light trippy
beat, it’s like some whacked out scientist crossbred an ancient bag of candy Skittles
with a handful of Mexican Jumping Beans.
    This is Forklift’s army.
    The other people, the ones
with the hip fashion sense and the desire to see and be seen , are
either sitting on the neon-purple leather couches or standing against the
mirrored walls, leaning against the white-marbled shelf as they sip their
drinks and whine about the burdens of cube life and The Routine.
    For me, while this place is super
smooth in its super smoothness, it’s missing something.  The strobe lights and
fog machines do their jobs providing a sky-is-falling apocalypse feel, but what
Elite really lacks is a sense of escape.  It’s too new and too ultra-cool and
too... now to make you feel like you’re actually getting away from anything. 
If this is where everybody goes to get away from it all, they’re heading right
back into the norm.  Completing an open-ended circle.
    I pride myself on my non-conformity,
but honestly, sometimes, I’m glad to be like everybody else, which is why I
step up to the bar and order two shots of something called a Wayback.
    And after the first one, I realize
why it’s called that.  It’s so strong and tongue-numbing, I jerk my head way
back from the shot glass like it bit me.  The thing tastes vaguely like Wishful
Thinking’s Wintergreen Tomato Popsicles, and I can already feel my stomach
cringing in disbelief that I would drink something like this.
    With his back to the bar, elbows
propping him up, Forklift laughs and sips his bottled