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This story is to good to not be told. There was a time in my life that I was very much involved in studying the reality under different stages of alcohol poisoning.

One of my favorite labs was a bar at a restaurant called Casablanca.  At the time the place was run by a new owner with a crew of characters, that reality TV would kill for.

The place had a fire place in the bar, with a table next to it, practically reserved for me. Just several feet farther there was a door to the owner’s office, where the thing was.

If you were expecting Bambi killing or something of this sort, you might be feeling disappointed, but the story does not end here, Not Yet.

The deer story

Everything you are about to read is based on my personal experiences.

This is unreal!

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Interesting content coming soon. Please check back in a couple of days.

Now is a time to introduce the cast.  Playing the shrewd businessman, with connections  in different places, was me. 

With matching accessories ( S-Class, Rolex, etc.) and my bold polish-accent-speaking head, that was drunk half of the time,  I was definitely the patron to fight for. And they have.

Co-staring in this story must be the place owner Antuan and his profit man, the bartender, whose name I forgot . There were some more characters around, but the story is about the deer head, in content of witch they played no major role. 

 Business for the restaurant  was slowing down.  After initial  wave of customers, tempted by Grand Opening sign and flyers, it was obvious that hood did not endorse the place.

The lack of action on the dining floor was compensated in  part by a bar, what brings us right to the bartender.

There are bartenders, and there was this guy.  His life recipe was identical to the one that Mama Grizzly lives by:  why to learn, if you can make it up.  Rum with coke was the only drink that you could recognize when ordered.

To even further separate himself from bartenders, he unveiled  to thirsty masses  coffee-based explosive, that literally burned when served.  Within days, he added drama by enriching drinking experience with a dance. In ballet like movement he was sprinkling something over drinks to create more sparks.

It was highly cheesy act that nobody enjoyed as much as he did.  The owner and his right hand, skinny German cook named Peter, never missed the show.  After all it was the brightest part of their day.

I need to say something about the restaurant.  It was a beautiful place. Located in one of the most prestigious neighborhoods of Seattle, right on the main road, connecting the Children’s Hospital to expensive houses of working there doctors, it was a goldmine under previous management.  I can not recall the name under which the restaurant operated back then, but I do remember having a dinner there.  Place was packed with old money, mentioned above doctors and their neighbors, lawyers.

By reservation only, French cuisine fine dining goldmine.

I also remember meeting the original owner.

Dressed up like for a run way, very smooth,  born to suck up.

He knew his role and he understood  expectations of people with maids.  He wasn’t a cook, he was a businessman and he had to be a gay, what I believe was also an asset in running a French  restaurant in this particular neighborhood.

 

Antuan was a total opposite of his predecessor. A ton of heart and grams of sophistication.  Jeans wearing, poorly mannered, easy going and loud, street smart cook, that took on the mission of winning the hearts and wallets of Seattle’s elite.

To make it easier, he also made his skin dark, and then born himself in North Africa.

His trademark was the apron. Dark, brown leather apron that looked like something what butchers wear, but was definitely designed for Nazi torturers.

As soon as I’ve got comfortable enough to share my thoughts, I did suggest to hide this thing, but as much as my opinion was respected and appreciated, in case of the apron I was wrong, I learned.

 

He gave me once a tour of the whole facilities including kitchen and his office where I spotted the head of a deer. 

Getting there. Dramatic end coming soon.

I’m spending extra time on barely related to the story line subjects, but somehow I wanted to address the mounting difficulties business wa I have no idea what was making him wear it, but it 

 

Change of hearts

It just happened.

5.30 am Dec.8th Camano isle, Gas station

I’m usually up around four. With big appetite for information, early morning TV has been the first step of my daily routine. With my interest  mainly in business related channels, morning starts however from search for something with Braking News banner on it.  Some massive human tragedy that will remind me how great my life is, in contrast to…

Step two of my routine has been a pleasure drive to the nearby gas station.  Besides being refilling post on Red Bull and cigarettes, it has been also a stage, on witch  I enjoy sound of my voice.

This morning, Dec 8, when I walked in, it was not much going on there. There was some guy helping himself with a coffee they brew in commercial devices and sell for a change, and my favorite girl to chat with, who works there few mornings per week. With my four-pack in hand, in front of counter, waiting for Marlboro and receipt with no time to waste, I went after The Tax Deal.  I used the frame, I believe, that people like you don’t seem to have representation within the government.  At this time the coffee buyer had joined us.  Assuming that he also wasn’t a great beneficiary of the compromise, I did include him in the same underrepresented group.

And then I confronted the evil.

Powered by ignorance and low self esteem, born to hate, voice rising evil.

You don’t know me! Hey, you don’t speak for me… I can not remember anything more. The amount of hostility in his voice, and confrontational, intimidating posture had my adrenaline spike. 

Hitting him in the nose with my forehead known as BDTS (Bush Doctrine Tactical Solution) risky yet tempting option, was a first what the far right of me cried for.  There was also an option b, that addressed an age, and other physical disadvantages.  BDSS (Bush Doctrine Strategic Solution),  involved me playing cool, and then in surprising attack hitting the bully in the back of his head with the biggest can of dog food they have.

I asked the girl to help the gentleman first, instead, and patiently waited for him to came up with 69 cents. No eye contact, soundless pussy.

I stayed quiet until he left.

Silently watching the evil billionaire getting in to the old pickup he was using to avoid attention that wealth can bring, and driving himself back to his yacht, that he had to have anchored between Paul Allen’s and one that Joe the plumber just bought, I guess.

I realized then, right in the gas station, how far left from myself I went and how hypocritical by doing so I had become . After years of chasing the profits it felt good to stand up for less fortunate, but behind the facade of caring for, and empathizing with, truly to myself, I don’t really want to contribute to his healthcare nor  unemployment benefits (if needed). Let  me be clear:  I’m not changing camps.  I still believe that Steve Forbes is an imbecile. I’m not changing my opinion on lying misfits like McCain or Bachman, used by scrupulous media instead of monkeys to attract not capable of complex thinking villagers. I’m just getting bearish on working class. 

I prefer to use the money for some serious bombing.

Good for manufacturing, good for jobs, good for ratings, good for America and good for me. I’m with sister Sarah on it.  As for the evil guy, I don’t care no more.

If you want to know more about opportunities within defense sector, my new website www.nostrodarius.com will cover this sector soon.

Let me know if you want to be notify when we go life.