My friends and I are in an on-again/off-again writing club where the rules are simple. Every two weeks you have to submit three short stories that it took you 20 minutes or less to write. These are the results.

A mailman came into the bar, handed the bartender a letter bundle, took off his hat, hung his mailbag on the back of a stool and proceeded to get drunk in his uniform. Loudly boringeveryone in hearing range.  When he first came in, he ordered a Jack and a Bass.

“In the same glass?” the bartender asked.

“I should get a free drink for that question,” said mailman.

Twenty degrees outside and this asshole’s in shorts, comparing the Postal service to the Marines.  He’s tipping a quarter 3 out of every four rounds.  He called the rest of his delivery friends.  Now there’s two fedex lesbians, an Asian from airborne express and a fat black UPS guy.  All rosy or sweating from the cheeks, leaning on hand trucks, empty package bags on their backs.

The drink special is a beer and a hot dog for $1.25.  Once a guy with his jaw wired shut came in and said put the whole special in the blender, hot dog and all.  Guy’d brought his own straw, a fat McDonald’s straw to let the finer chunks of meat through.  That same guy, when his neck was okay, would stand outside his house and water his sidewalk in the summer.  Came to the bar in a leather vest with no shirt on, darts tucked in his pants line. Automatically hand over his knife to the bouncer as he came to the door.

The staff got as drunk as the crowd, and would stay after hours diminishing inventory.

Jo once said, “When the moon’s full my tits hurt!  Put that in your fucking story.” The man next to her had a shirt said, “If Its Got Tits Or Wheels Sooner Or Later It’ll Give You Trouble.”  The bartenders sucked the nitrous out of all the whipped cream cans.  The jar of pickles had a plastic aquarium diver in the bottom.  The milk’s borderline.  The cherries glowed in the dark.  They kept the rest of storage double padlocked.