"The Hairy Man Saloon" sign loomed among the trees by the highway. In the night, from a distance, you could hear the banter of drunken men and loud noises vibrating inside the rustic tavern. Inside, "Rompin' Ronnie Burns" (Ronald Burkingstone) bellowed into a mic loudly, and a slightly louder, distorted, twangy electric guitar rattled the room. The drummer ("Crazy" Phil Philips) and bass player (Randall "Freaky" Freeman) were pounding away, which created a wash of incredible volume. The bar would barely fill 100 people. The stage volume could have easily filled a medium-sized performance hall. The band finished the third song of their set, and Ronnie took a deep swig of his 750ml bottle of TN Whiskey. Crazy Phil Philips, the drummer, conscientiously inquired "Ronnie...do you really think you should be drinking that during the show?" Ronnie deeply gazed at the shiny bottle, nearly empty. He then tossed it in the corner and it shattered impressively. The abrupt, sharp sound jolted Randall from a daze. He stopped picking his nose (which he did involuntarily and frequently), wiped his hands on the wall and started paying attention. "You're right Phil...what the hell was I thinkin'?!?!" said Ronnie, as he shook his head. A few seconds later, Ronnie pulls out a half gallon of TN Whiskey from his bag. The label on the bottle framed an old photo of a bloated, bearded, swine wearing aristocratic garb with a top hat (the pig, of course, being the international symbol of regal virtue and intelligence). Very classy, Ronnie thought, as he admired the design, girth and dimensions of his handle. "This is what I should be drinkin'. That other bottle was WWWAAAAAYYYY too damned small. We have a long night ahead of us!" He opened the bottle and chased whiskey with whiskey. The band slagged into another shuffle rhythm and the night was set into motion. The mass of people, shoulder to shoulder, swayed like the ocean. The room was standing room only, and absolutely at full capacity (this meant the doorman could squeeze about 53 more people in and skim a few hundred dollars from the cover charge cash he was collecting).
The blues song ended unexpectedly. All three members of the band were playing different songs, however they all sounded very much alike, so it ended up working for a while. Crazy Phil kicked off a new groove on the drums and the next song was off and running. This song sounded like a faster version of the song(s) they had just played (respectively). The group was rocking hard, then harder. Then, just when the song was coming to the great, searing crescendo...that meddling General Manager of the Hairy Man Saloon, Chip Arnold, had the audacity to strut over to the soundboard and pull the volume down.
Ronnie Burns stepped up to the mic to deliver that fine poetry, the speech that would send the music over the line, into overdrive, to send the room into the sixth dimension. The words were spoken...but there is no sound. Only the deafening snap of a repeating snare drum and the crunching, rumbling thuds of a bass guitar. Ronnie then felt as if his oxygen supply had been cut off. Had the PA speakers blown?!?! Are the power amps dead!?!? All of these possible dilemmas frantically raced through Ronnie's head. Then, a fraction of a moment later, he caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye. He turned quickly to see that micro-managing, OCD, bureaucratic, underpaying, alleged moose-fucker, Chip Arnold, pushing buttons, moving sliders and turning knobs on the soundboard. In an instant, Ronnie's vision went red, his bearded, fat face wincing and inflating, like a boil.
"What in the flying fuck do you think your doin?!?!". The roar of Ronnie's voice, without the aid of a microphone, was not surprisingly, very loud. The sound that projected from his beet-red jowls cut like a hacksaw through the sea of noisy boozers. The room fell relatively quiet. Chip Arnold retorted, "We didn't hire you to play at stadium volume!" Chip commenced to further twist knobs and push buttons, despite the fact he had only the dimmest understanding of soundboards. "I'm running the sound from now on", Chip said, confidently. "My whole staff has gone deaf because of you." "I'm running sound from now on", he clearly stated once again, slowly, with direct enunciation and finality.
"If you don't take your hands off that soundboard, I'm going to cut them off and feed them to wild pigs!", Ronnie shouted. Chip was not surprised by these words. Ronnie had a crude sense of humor and frequently joked with friends about dismembering them and/or their families. "I would like to see you try!", laughed Mr. Chip Arnold, as he unnecessarily, blindly twisted knobs on the board further. He seemed to have broken a few of the buttons in his display. He was going out of his way to emphasize the spite in his actions, with flamboyant finesse, grandeur, flair. Ronnie's face was now beyond red...purple-like.
A relevant note here, Ronnie had increased his drinking exponentially after grudgingly meeting with his ex-wife's attorney...they may settle out of court. Either way, things were not looking good. Chip, unfortunately, did not know this. On top of that, Ronnie just so happened to be six foot five and weigh nearly 15 stone. "You wrinkly, bald cunt!", Ronnie yelled, with a rasp, "They will never find your body!" Ronnie threw his guitar down. SLAM, feedback filled the room. "Yer done", said Ronnie, as he belligerently began to plow through the drunks standing between him and his nemesis.
Mister Chip Arnold then realized Ronnie was probably not joking this time. Beneath the bushy eyebrows of Ronnie, there was a haunting distance in his eyes. A blood-rage was manifesting itself in that moment. Ronnie drew closer and closer to Chip. He looked like the trunk of a tree falling forward or a lumbering bi-pedal bear. Some locals tried to stop him. They knew a brawl was imminent and they didn't want the cops called to break up their party. The locals never cared much for Mr. Chip Arnold. They knew someone would get him eventually, but it was not going to be on this night. Not on their drinkin' night.
Ronnie clenched his vicious, ghastly teeth and easily shrugged off one body after the other. It was like he was in a dense forest, pushing away small trees and bushes. To Ronnie's disdain, the combined strength of the crowd was able to hold him back long enough for Chip Arnold to scurry away.
"I need to feel the music!", proclaimed Ronnie, as he tilted his way in a headlong motion to the soundboard. He pushed the master volume all the way up to the top, ripped off the knob and threw it into the crowd. There was a brief shimmer of screeching feedback. "Now we're talkin'!" Ronnie strapped on his "hotrod" Teleblaster guitar. "This next song is called 'Yo Mama Ain't Nothin' but a Rat Bag Walrus in a Sumbitchin' Jabberwocky'. The euphorant Ronnie, briefly paused, with thoughtful, gleaming eyes, declaring "It's a story from the Bible." He was somehow serious and completely genuine.
The song started with a shuffle rhythm and Ronnie ripped some blues riffs on the guitar. The first verse began and Ronnie sang "YEEEEAAAH". A few measures passed..."YEEEAAHHH", "ALRIGGHHHHT", "MMOOOOMOOOOOO", "SUMMMBIITCHHH" and more Dylan Thomas inspired poetry infused the song. The vibrations were intense. Some antique lanterns and pint glasses rattled off a high shelf, falling eight feet down to a meet the wooden plank floor...CRASH. No one seemed to notice. They were packed in and locked into the spell cast by the rambling trio.
After a tasteful guitar solo, the song ended with the tried and true classic blues tag, coupled with the lyrics "Chip Ar-nold is a Moose Fuuu-ckeeeer!" The band held out the final note of the song, rattling the small building to the foundation. The bar staff scowled, as their brains slammed in their skulls and congealed into a mush. As the burn continued with mighty flourishes of cymbals and drums, rumbling bass, and wailing guitar, the crowd erupted in massive cheering, screaming applause. The drummer and bass player smiled broadly, in wild astonishment. A few seconds later they both noticed there was liquid pooling on the stage...Ronnie, in a state of ecstatic oblivion, had pissed his pants.