STEVE – THE OTHER BARTENDER (RAPE 101)

5 Aug

 

“Scuse me love,” said Steve pushing passed the barmaid. The confines of the bar forced the bar staff to shuffle past each other like commuters on a subway. Wasn’t all bad though, made for a cozy experience as he brushed his crotch passed the latest Barbie lookalike John had hired. He smiled his recently whitened teeth into her face, enjoyed her response, enjoyed how good she smelt and felt an electric tingle in his trousers as his nether regions passed within inches of hers. To date he’d an eighty percent success rate. He’d know within the first couple of days if he stood a chance with this one.

Usually he took them up to John’s office and did them on them on the couch. If John ever found out he’d go bloody bananas. Fat chance of that happening though as he was always occupied somewhere else. Not the quickest on the up take was old John – didn’t have a clue. That was the way with John, never had his eye on business. Always distracted with his perfect family or some piece of random fanny he was chasing. Of course getting his dick wet with some big-boobed-blonde-bimbo on his boss’s desk was a thrill but the idiot had no idea he was taking him for a small fortune as well. Supplementing the pathetic wages John paid him and more than making up for the long hours he worked. Bloody slave labor is what it was. If it wasn’t for the French benefits he’d probably go and find himself a real job.

“Hello lover. How’s about a kiss?” said a redheaded angel surrounded by lookalikes in white basques, stockings and suspenders. Another hen party, probably the fourth he’d seen here tonight. Young girls and middle aged office colleagues walking around the town like marauding prostitutes in their undies.  Selling bride’s kisses or offering to suck lollipops for sixpence. It wasn’t exactly original and had become a regular sight. If it wasn’t the stags drunk off their arses fighting in the street, it was future brides and bridesmaids crying in doorways with mascara running down their well-fed cheeks.

“What can I get for you ladies?”

The redhead proceeded to list a dosage of alcohol that would kill a small horse but which would probably just tingle the toenails of these Northern girls. Obviously the chief conspirator, she looked like she’d worn out the pavement with the number of times she’d been around the block. The young girls with her looked slightly more demure but, compared to the whore of Babylon ordering the drinks, that wasn’t hard.

 He turned his back to get the drinks, heard the comments, “Show us your prick as well you dishy bastard!”

Nothing new, nothing he hadn’t heard before. If you couldn’t score in this pub then you were probably gay, and if you were gay then you wouldn’t go home alone. It was a smorgasbord of delinquency. The Slug and Cabbage catered to all tastes. If you couldn’t cop-off here then you were probably eighty and blind. Although, looking at the amount of make-up old red had smeared across her face, she’d probably blow the octogenarians for bus tokens in the bathroom.

“Here you go ladies. Who’s the lucky bride?”

A plump brunette with angel wings was pushed to the front of the bar by her mates. A sign hung round her neck that said Kiss Me Quick, Fuck Me Slow. He leaned across the bar and kissed her on the cheek. “All the luck in the world darling.”

She blushed and her mates cheered. “Go on give him a shag,” they shouted.

He collected their money and heard his favorite phrase, “and have one for yourself.” That was cash in pocket, the tip he’d just worked so hard for. He wasn’t stupid. He knew John suspected something was going on. The newly-installed cameras betrayed his suspicions. Just another nuisance he had to circumnavigate when pilfering from the boss. No point in being greedy – a little here, a little there. It all amounted to the same in the end. The Slug and Cabbage was a big fat dairy cow waiting for her udders to be squeezed, not unlike its clientele.

At the start of shift when no one was around he’d dabbed the camera lenses with olive oil, an old trick that worked every time. If John ever took the time to learn how to work the video recorder in his office all he would see were blurred shapes moving around the bar. He went to the register and pressed the NS button- No Sale – meaning nothing went on the receipt. The cash drawer flew open. He pretended to put in the cash before pushing it closed. John was a frigging idiot and would never cop to the scam. He deserved to be taken advantage of. The sun was shining and Steve was making a little illicit hay. Ready cash that enabled him to dress in the manner he’d become accustomed. Gaultier aftershave, Polo shirts, Louis Vuitton brogues. He certainly looked like he was in the money. Only his bank account said otherwise.

It’d been a bit of a shock when the new girl had walked in to the bar to see him balanced on a chair doctoring the cameras. She’d said nothing but he got the feeling she knew what he was up to. Have to keep his eye on her and not just her figure either. If he used a little of his well-practiced patter then hopefully he could bring her on to his side. Who knows, maybe join forces? Two on the scam was better than one.

Suddenly there was a cacophony of sound. The bloody band was back on stage again. Bunch of aging rockers John had found through some newspaper ad apparently. Lots of noise, not a lot of class. If it had been his place he’d probably have a couple of the local bands in. There was a lively music scene in the city and he’d use the place to showcase some of the local talent. He smiled as he saw the redheaded angel climb onto a table. A bunch of blokes surrounded her with their arms in the air. What was it with middle aged women and a couple of vodkas that turned them into table dancers? The old slapper!

He turned to John to point out what was happening, but he was nowhere to be seen. He looked through the crowd to see his boss disappearing with some young thing into the bathroom. Never one to waste an opportunity was old John. The new barmaid was touching up her lipstick and pushing her up her tits, readying herself for the onslaught once the band finished.

Seizing the moment he took two bottles of whisky from the bar. The expensive stuff – Johnny Walker Blue – and concealed them in the cupboard under the sink. Had to be quick though, an opportunity like this wasn’t to be wasted. He’d get fifty quid apiece for those from the pub down the road. He got up to to see jugs smiling at him, her hands on her hips, her short skirt showing off her fantastic legs. He put a finger to his lips and she rubbed her fingers together. Clearly she wanted in on the deal. He gave her his best smile – he’d sort her out later. She blew him a kiss and went back to her adoring audience at the bar. Damn, he had to be more careful. It was one thing getting caught but having to share his ill-gotten gains as well. Not good, especially with things the way they were.  Right now he needed every penny he could get his hands on.

“Hey mate.  How about some drinks? Dying of bloody thirst over here, think my throats been bloody cut!” A bunch of lads dressed in rugby shirts looking the worst for wear were propping up the corner of the bar. Obviously a stag party.

“How’s it going lads? What can I get for you?”

“Six lagers, two vodka and cokes, and a lemonade for the poof.” The poof grinned – obviously the designated driver.

‘Who’s the lucky lad then?” Steve asked.

The stag in yellow and red hoops pointed to a lad slumped over a chair. Lipstick marks covered his face and a giant strap on penis stuck out from his trousers. “He is. Tomorrow at three. Poor fucker. Another good man lost forever.”

The lad with the pink rubber penis waved and smiled. Three o’clock, really? It would take a bleeding miracle if he made it. “Lot of totty in here tonight mate. You might want to hook up with the angels over there. Bound to get your end away with those birds.” Steve advised.

A smile spread across the rugger lads’ faces. “Wilco wing-commander. Bandits at  three o’clock!” The stags picked up their glasses, grabbed rubber dick, and made for the angels. Steve scooped the beer-soaked cash from the bar and put it straight into his pocket. If he was a gambling man, and he was, he’d lay odds that Prince Penis wouldn’t make it to the reception.

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