72. The Color Purple

Burbank and I went to a pub. I will not name the pub here, so let us call it The Purple Pub because that is the colour your face becomes when you go here. It seemed like a chill enough place, right? Sort of the old man’s bar that young men go to waiting for their turn to die. Or something like that.

Anyway, I ordered something called a Tank, which Burbank warned me against, but I figured What the hell, I only live once. Such are the last words of many dead idiots. The stuff matches its name. It looks sort of gray and oily like someone’d spilt their paint set in.

I started off with a rather lack of caution by taking a huge swig of the vile stuff. Big mistake. What was once liquid turned spongy in my mouth like my tongue had absorbed all the fluid and I was left with something a bit like taffy. I just could not swallow it.

So instead, I spit the large gob of gray madness out of my mouth as hard as I could. It cleared the table and hit the bald man sitting across from us in the back of the head.