Bad Company – Feel Like Makin’ Love – Writing Exercise
Driving home today, I felt the odd urge to write something. Just had the itch. I threw on the Amazon Cloud Player and listened to a song that I’d downloaded for free recently, Bad Company’s “Feel Like Makin’ Love”, and I just started writing whatever came to mind when I heard it. What’s below is what came out of it. It’s short and completely unedited, so bear with things that sound off, as I experiment with style and wording sometimes. Feel free to let me know what you think of the premise, or if you’d like to see it expanded upon into a longer story, or a series, or really whatever you think of it at all. Enjoy, or at least bear with me.
A sleazy bar, the lights dim but unflickering. The jukebox plays some lazy song while cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a southern drawl. An old, grizzled tough has been making love to the bar for hours, holding onto a past that’s got more nails in it than a recobbled shack. A waitress is on her break, using her phone to check up on her kids, who are at home with her boyfriend who she may or may not trust this week. She’s young, pregnant younger, never been able to get out of this piss and shit town, and so she works hours at this bar because it’s the only way she can make halfway decent money without flashing her goodies. A man older than her knows what she wants more than she does, and goes over to her table happy to offer it to her. She’s used to the hardly-sly come-ons of the drunken slobs and miscreants that populate Rusty Ted’s, but she just don’t have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with Hep’s wily hands tonight.
“Try to keep them hands inside your pockets, Hep,” she mutters, her eyes not leaving her hands as they redial the number. Dammit, Ray, pick up the goddamn phone.
Hep isn’t hearing nothing from her, and tries to be clever, but his brain has been swimming in brown sloppy juice since 4, so the closest he can come to common courtesy is a slurred compliment of her nethers.
He puts his hands on the girl, and the tough gets up from his stool faster than a flash and kicks Hep so hard that it feels like his nose punched him in the face. Hep soars through the air like a fat faltering bird and crashes into a table. Blood pours down the side of his cheeks as he lets out a moan, semi-conscious and still far from sober. Hep’s friends, though…they’ve got a bit more to argue about. The tough puts his drink down, and if these lunks can’t make him feel something, anything, he might just kill somebody.
