The PUSHER

The BEAST Distribution Journal

 


Slinging the Beast: An article in Four Chapters

I was afraid this would happen; nothing interesting occurred while slinging The BEAST this past week. Iím not saying that what I wrote about in the first two episodes was terribly interesting, but shit, a guy stopped traffic to swear at me in a positive wayónot to mention I met a cat named Mac who gave me a bucket of water. Pushing The BEAST is quickly becoming like most things: routine. Maybe not quite as routine as lunch at 11:30 and naptime at 12:30, maybe not quite as routine as having cinnamon toast and Green Tea for breakfast, but routine nonetheless.

1 Ė Run the Top Shelf.

I walk into Kostaís and am socially brutalized. This guy, who I think may run the joint, keeps telling me that I have to put The BEAST under the Artvoice. Thatís fine. Iíll place The BEAST below; but why must he reiterate it as if Iíve once stepped out from his downward stare and attempted to place it in its rightful position above the Artvoice? I feel his plight, why canít he feel mine? I understand. The Artvoice is East Amherst and The BEAST is the Lower West Side. He is the champion: his fine eatery is the second of Greek descent when it comes to satisfying drunken appetites on Friday nights. (Good for you if you donít know the first). He needs to maintain the proper look. Do you think that when the guy from the Artvoice comes in, the guy at the counter smiles and says, "Hey, would you just put that above The BEAST, please?" Maybe. Or maybe the guy from the Artvoice looks much smarter than I do and he figures that he doesnít need to tell him where to put it anymore. Or maybe a robot delivers the Artvoice. Maybe Iím wrong, but I know that I am fully capable of following requests or, orders, although Iíd rather not. Luckily Iím reserved, graced with a strong will, and am planning on resorting to Ghandi-like extremes while thwarting his backward ideals, rather than calling in the big guns, like my brother. He can eat a slice of pizza in one bite.

2 Ė Run your counter space.

So I returned to Xtreme Wheelsóon my snowboard this time, hovering over black snow óand saw that poor beaten young clerk eating a sub; however, unlike last time I saw him, he looked quite content. I was like, "I saw the owner two weeks ago, and she said to stop back. Can I leave this paper here?" He was all like, "She said it is too vulgar for our client base." Client base? I was like, "Yeah?" And he was like, "Yeah." And Cutler (my cohort on this mission) was like, "Wow." And then I was like, "Darn." Then, with a piece of tomato hanging from his lip, the guy at the counter was all like, "Sorry." I looked at the ground, kicked the dirt around a little, and left, defeated. Next stop: Mill and Bertís. I let Cutler go in this time to feel the love, and of course the patrons of that fine five-star establishment did not let me down. He came out, as I usually would, with a smile on his face. I was jealous.

3 Ė Run outside for a smoke.

If you missed the last issue, there was this stink-faced biker yapping his mouth and I forgot the name of the bar he was representing. Well I took note this time. It was The Toon Saloon. I was going to crap all over the bar, but I remembered, with some nudging from my partner, that the bartenders have actually commented on how they enjoy The BEAST. Respect Toon Saloon. You know those old t-shirts, where Bugs Bunny and Taz are dressed all "Hip-Hop," with baseball jerseys and their pants backwards? Well, they actually have that picture painted on the sign. Fresh. So anyway, this duck that hangs there regularly has the gall to talk shit to me about The BEAST. Only as we drive away. Or as we walk out of the joint. We catch respect from the bartender while he catches a few more rounds. If you go to the Toon Saloon, my bet is that he will be in the place. He was outside smoking and hollering some drivel last week. This week, my partner rolled up in the place and that chump kept his filthy mouth shut. He isnít even rough enough to smoke inside. He goes outside to smoke.

4 Ė Run the matches. Iím smoking inside.

That reminds me; perhaps the most interesting discovery Iíve made, which I meant to mention earlier, is that people still smoke in bars. In certain bars, mostly dives. These bars are called Speak-Wheezys. Hell, I donít care; I donít smokeÖcigarettesÖbut it almost feels good to walk into a bar and breathe in that cloud of certain death. I miss it. The amount of bars on Broadway, Hertel and Clinton is staggering. Whatís more staggering is the fact that half of them are Speak-Wheezys. You walk in, and everyone screw-faces you, until they figure youíre all right, just slinging a few papers. Then regular #3 un-cuffs the cigarette he was palming (I donít want to be the one to tell him that itís hard to hide something that is smoking). Thanks to these bars, smokers can once again enjoy their nights. Or afternoons. For a list of local Speak-Wheezys, e-mail: Tone@BuffaloBeast.com. Ask for Elliot, and use the secret code: Up with prohibition, down with smoking laws. I mean, hell, cigarettes and booze go together like weed-sacs and mini-bottles of Jack Daniels. Or The BEAST and dirty words.



Letters to the Evil Editors should be addressed to:
sic@buffalobeast.com

© 2004 The Beast