The Prince and Princess of Pepperoncini’s
.
She was the jewel of the bar and she knew it. She commanded a glance from every patron of the thinly filled establishment and the slightest look of contempt from the female bartender who was, prior to her entrance, the only game in town. She swiftly sat on top of a stool and boldly placed her Chanel bag on the bar top. It sat precariously close to a small pool of spilled beer – must have been a knock off.
The thin gap between her front teeth gently rolled into her thick dark lipstick that perfectly matched her thick dark eye liner that perfectly matched her unremarkable, but dark eyes. She was the princess of Pepperoncini’s and to her left was her prince.
He was unlike most of the bar’s patrons in several ways. For one, he had her – the jewel. He also refrained from adorning a jersey that denoted team loyalty. The reason for this, of course, was that this hulk’s loyalty lay elsewhere.
First, a question: How big should an American male desire his arms to be? Answer: Big enough to fit a tattoo of the unmistakable Slipknot “S.”
Even if his Pepperoncini’s trophy girl leaves with her thick make-up and knock-off Chanel bag he’ll still have that glorious “S” emblazoned on his arm with all the music and memories it . I just hope he didn’t get it with her, then he’s fucked.
