It was about three in the afternoon when I heard someone beating on my door. I rolled out of bed, scraped the crud off my tongue and answered. It was Ron, from Brownsville, Minneapolis, and parts beyond. Last time I saw him he was a prime candidate for a new liver, and he didn't look much better this day. The only thing surviving from better days was his smile. He endeared himself to people with that smirk. When they write the man's obituary they will have nothing good to say, but with his smile, I could forgive a lot. He handed me a liter bottle of scotch and walked in. I sat it on the kitchen counter and went to the bathroom. He asked what I'd been up to. I told him I won the lottery, and gave it all to the poor. I asked him the same. He said he found the cure for cancer, but forgot it in a frenzied night of celebratory drinking. We'd both contributed a lot to the world. Our names would be written in the stars. He pulled out a pack of American Spirits, tore it open, pulled out a cigarette, packed it on the back of his hand and lit it. "Let's get a burger," he suggested. "I'm buying." "I'd rather have some eggs," I replied. He flicked the ash on the floor. "I'm not buying eggs," he said. I got dressed and we walked over to Simba's Burgers, famous for being the only place where you can have a guy fry you a burger and then top off your tank with unleaded gasoline. We walked inside. I took a minute to appreciate the decor. Wall to wall paintings of circus clowns on black velvet. There were a couple flunky clowns, a few sad hobos, but mainly they were the evil John Wayne Gacy type. Their eyes followed us through the room. At the counter was a short kid with a runny nose and enough pimples for a whole junior high gym class. He asked us if he could help us. Ron ordered the special, a Billy Burger with cheese balls. I ordered the Big Wally and the brick of fries. Pimples went back and put together our order. I saw the kid wipe his nose about a dozen times with his hand, but I never saw him wash once. I turned my attention to the clowns on the wall. They glowered back. Then I looked at my shoes. Our orders arrived and we ate greedily. For me it was breakfast, and according to those that know, it's the most important meal of the day. After eating, Don suggested a few beers. I bummed a cigarette and told him it was a great idea. We sat at the bar for a while drinking. I asked him about his life, he asked about Beth and Janet. I told him they'd be at the bar tonight to see the band, we could catch up with them there. On the way, my stomach started jumping, I decided to ignore it. Just the beer, I told myself. The bar was Bill's Bar, a former pancake joint turned into a saloon. Right inside the front door was a makeshift stage. Just a few feet from that was an island of video lottery machines that made it impossible to see the band from half the seats in the joint. At the end of a long hall in the back of the building were the bathrooms. We made our way to the bar. I ordered a beer. Ron, a glass of water. When our drinks arrived, Ron drank half his water, pulled out the bottle of scotch from his coat, and topped off his glass. He drank it down in one long gulp. "Order me another," he said. "they mix them good here." I got him another glass. I spotted Janet and Beth in the back. They were both wearing dark green lipstick. I waved to them. They blew kisses back. Ron and I moved toward the front to view the band. We both knew Harlan, the guitarist. I'd roomed with Harlan for about five months until I tried to strangle him. We've been friends ever since. Every few months he would return from one of his haphazard, cross-country intentional freakouts to join a band, teach everyone to hate him, then get out of town shortly before being lynched. We chatted with Harlan a few seconds and my stomach lurched again. Some of the contents of my gut made it to the back of my tongue. It tasted like burnt plastic. "I don't feel so good," I said. I have that effect on people," Harlan said. "No," I said looking at Ron, "It's those goddam burgers." My stomach lurched again, I got another taste, a small mouthful. I choked it back down and started toward the restroom. I staggered through the crowd, pushed people, spilled drinks and ran into lit cigarettes. I found a long line for the bathroom. I squeezed toward the front of one pushed some woman out of my way. I forced open the door and fell down on the floor. I was nearly delirious. I looked up and Beth was sitting on the toilet with her cotton panties around her ankles. She was smoking a slim cigarette. The butt was stained green from her lipstick. She took a long drag. "Don't you know this is the ladies' room, asshole?" I wiped the cold sweat off my forehead and prepared to reply. Them my stomach surged. My mouth filled with rancid meat and bile. There was no way I could choke it back down. I struggled to my knees, put my hands on Beth's thighs, pushed her back as far as could, stuck my head between her legs and let go. I wretched several times, the noise echoed off the walls. It sounded like I was trying to summon an evil tribe of trolls from the river valley. My stomach contracted, then spasmed. My esophagus burned, my head felt like it was on fire. Then the heaving stopped. I breathed deeply, only to feel my throat being crushed against the lip of the toilet as Beth used the back of my neck for support to stand up. I fell to the floor. My head cracked against the wet tile. I rolled on to my back and saw Beth pulling up her panties. She glared at me. I coughed and spat. I looked up at her. "I like your lipstick," I said. She kicked me in the ribs twice, opened the door, then kicked me again. After Beth walked out, the doorway filled with faces, some of the ugliest faces I'd ever seen. None of them approved of me. I kicked the door shut. I stood up and looked in the mirror. My eyes were dark red, my face white as pork tallow behind streaks of vomit. My hair was wet in the front from dangling in the standing water, urine and puke in the toilet. I washed my face and threw some water on my hair. I felt like my intestines had been pureed. I made a feeble attempt to wipe up the mess I'd made on the toilet, composed myself and walked past the people in line as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. Nothing out of the ordinary for me, at least. I walked into the main room. Ron and Harlan were standing with Janet and Beth. As I approached I saw Beth tell the others something. Ron fell down laughing and beer shot out of Harlan's nose. Janet had to sit down. I joined them. Beth shook her head. "What a loser," she said. I grabbed a pack of cigarettes off the table and shook two out. I put one behind my ear and the other in my mouth. I pulled some matches out of my pocket and lit up. I could barely taste the tobacco smoke over the bile. Ron offered me a glass. I reached past the glass and into his coat. I pulled out the liter of scotch, now half gone, unscrewed the cap and took a short pull, rinsed my mouth and spit it out on the floor. I tipped the bottle back and took a long drink. It went down my throat like gasoline. I handed the bottle back. Ron recoiled. His benevolent grin dropped. "Keep it," he said. "My gift to you." I nodded, stuck the bottle in my inside coat pocket, and walked toward the front door. The crowd seemed to part for me, like I was a leper....or like I was royalty, I thought. I bowed imperceptively in both directions. And in the dirty little recesses in my monkey mind I heard the crowd chant, "Long live the King of the Losers," and I smiled.