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GRAFEK Presentations:

The Meat Bar
A Love Story
Issue One- "Nice to Meat You, Man"
Written by Brian Ekberg

	My name is Tito. Actually, it�s Tito Tito, but that�s not something I
want to get into right now. Suffice it to say that my English is not
so good and my name is a constant source of embarrassment and
frustration. Also, my shoes are generally too tight and that makes my
job as an entertainer even more difficult. Tight shoes and ill-fitting
jumpsuits do not a happy Spaniard make, let me tell you.
	I was born in Flagstaff, Arizona, but never saw too much of the
scenery there. Take my word for it though, there ain�t much there,
man. It�s like a big mouth you know? No tonsils, no teeth and no
tongue. Just a big mouth that�s hot and stinky and needs a brushing.
Not much to look at, unless you dig cactus. And, man, I hate cactus.
Sharp bastards. Never where you need them.
	I have a couple of brothers. We�re triplets, the three of us. There�s
Gil and P�p�. Both of them are pretty nice guys, for brothers. I mean,
I don�t really see them that much, especially Gil. I only see him when
we are working on stage. He�s spends most of his time talking and
throwing things. P�p� is a hard worker. Momma said he never had that
much talent. But let me tell you this, he works his cheeks off, you
know? I�ve never seen anyone who practices jumping and singing as much
as he does. He has a pretty good throwing arm too, not as accurate as
me or as hard as Gil, but not bad.
	So I have a job, you know? I�m not just sitting here on my ass
gathering moss like some stinking dust trap. I am "gainfully
employed," as Mr. Hunt (my boss) says. "Be proud," he says, "You�ve
got a job, even if you�re only making minimum wage." Then he stomps
off with that stupid laugh of his. 
	I try to keep to myself, man. I don�t want no trouble for noone. I
don�t like people talking �after my back� as the kids say. 
	Last week I was at work, and Mr. Wilson (my other boss) came up with
this sheet of paper in his hand. I was mopping the damn floor, just
like he had told me. He asked me to stop and handed me that piece of
paper. I took a look at it. It said:
	
	THE MEAT BAR	
	IT�S LIKE A SALAD BAR, BUT MEAT

	EVERYTHING SUCKS BUT THE MEAT
	
	COME GET YER MEAT
	
	MEAT LIKE YER MAMMY WOULD MAKE IT

	"What the hell is this crap?" I asked after setting my mop down. 
	Mr. Wilson said it was something to do about advertising or some crap.
I had no idea what we were advertising. It�s not like we were open yet
or nothing. 
	"Just work it into the act," Mr. Wilson said, "Mr. Ekberg (my other
boss) wants it in tonight�s act. He would have brought to you himself,
but he�s busy." Right then I knew Phil was shittin� me, man. Mr.
Ekberg don�t ever do nothing, man. He just comes in and nobody sees
him for eight or ten hours. I think he�s up there playing Atari 2600
or something, man.
	Phil headed back to his office where he continues to "rake the money"
as he puts it. Crazy Gringo. I stood there looking at the crummy piece
of paper, and finally folded it into my pocket and took up mopping
again. There was plenty of dried meat to clean up from the night
before. If I had any balls, I thought to myself, I�d just put this mop
down and sit. I continued to mop though.
	I love to sing, you know? I have a strong love for the opera and Duran
Duran. Shit like that, you know? Good stuff. "The Reflex," man. Now
that was a song! Wagner, Mozart. All that crap. I sing that stuff all
the time when I work, like some stinkin� Snow White or something.
Forget whistle while you work! Try singing my friend. You will pass
the hours, trust me.
	Of course it pisses Mr. Hunt, Wilson and Ekberg off. Whenever I sing I
just know what they are going to say.
	Mr. Hunt: Shut up, Tito! You�re drowning out my rave music!
	Mr. Wilson: Tito, I think that you really need to save your voice for
the stage. We don�t want you to hurt you vocal cords.
	Mr. Ekberg: SHUT THE HELL UP TITO! I�M TRYIN� TO WORK UP HERE!
You want to know what though? I generally keep singing anyway.

					* * *

	"Frankly sir, it�s deplorable. Absolutely deplorable. It�s completely
appalling. I have never seen anything like it in the 20 years I have
been in this profession."
	Mayor Tommy Nygren took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. After a
few moments, he lifted himself from his seat and then leaned onto the
dark oak of his desk.
	"Well what can I do, Johnston?" the mayor asked to the thin man on the
other side of his desk. "It�s all over the papers. The City Council is
not going to pass any new restaurant health ordinances until the state
audit is completed. Hell, you know how many letters I�ve gotten from
residents in Ward 1? They�re terrified of this place�"
	Johnston stiffed up, stood tall and raised his voice slightly. "All
the more reason we should shut this crap down before it gets heated
up, Mr. Mayor. With all due respect, sir, this is making you look
bad."
	Nygren took the cigar from his mouth and pointed the moist end at
Johnston. "You think I don�t know this! But the City Council is not
going to approve any further restaurant legislation. And with the
state revenue department breathing down our necks, we can�t afford�"
	"The city can�t afford a city-full of salmonella cases either, Mr.
Mayor," Johnston interrupted.
	"It�s not really that bad is it?" Nygren asked, though he knew the
answer already.
	Johnston lowered his eyebrows in a serious expression. Moments passed
before the mayor emitted a resigned sigh.
	"Well, you�re chief building inspector," the mayor said. "You would
know. Let�s go. I want to see this for myself."
	Nygren plopped on his gray fedora, climbed into his overcoat and
headed out the door, with Johnston not far behind. The door was left
open behind the pair.

				* * *

	I don�t really think that much when I�m on stage, you know? I just do
my job! Gil (my brother) takes it real serious you know. He says what
we do "is for the good of Spain," and "honorable, in the same league
as Columbus," and other bull. Gil�s crazy that way. But he can jump
high, let me tell you. Noone on earth can doubt his jumping ability.
I jump pretty good too. You know how they say someone�s may not be a
spectacular fast runner or incredibly strong? They say this person is
solid, a good, dependable, "clutch" guy. That�s how I would describe
my jumping actions. Mr. Hunt once said that when I jumped, I reminded
him of Paul Molitor, the famous Milwaukee Brewer, American baseball
hero. I took that as a compliment, you bet! That day I went to a card
shop and bought all of the Paul Molitor cards the guy had. Got like 34
cards or something. Cost me around $3.50 total but it was worth it,
let me tell you.
	You wanna know what a regular day is like, I guess. Well it�s not like
things are scheduled. I mean, for God�s sake, the guy who does our
books is a clown. I mean that literally, man. 
	But there are at least some things that take place every hour on the
hour, thank God. One of those things has to do with a monkey and meat,
but you need to come down here and see it for yourself, because I
don�t like talking about it that much. Scares me. Sounds like a fiesta
in hell every hour, you know? Some people dig it. I know Mr. Hunt gets
all revved every time he starts that rave music. Hopping and dancing.
And you know the real weird thing is? 
	Mr. Hunt hates freakin� rave music.
	I can�t figure him out man. 
	But at the bottom of every half-hour, me and my brothers (there�s
three of us, remember) come out and do our thing. I got it down like a
science, you know? I don�t even have to think about it. Just come out,
jump, sing and pass out the baskets. Customers love the baskets. They
know what will be in those baskets in 30 minutes, let me tell you.
I remember this one chiquita, man. It was a Saturday night, so she had
the American disco fever. She really was staring at me hard, when we
were jumping. She was making all those American-googly eyes that the
women make here. Winking and turning away all coy-like. Well I was so
excited to be there for her. You know, I was really jumping high, you
can be sure! I was so proud to be doing these things that I was made
to do in America, land of opportunity. Goodness knows I was jumping.
So she was making these eyes and giggling with her friends. Anyway the
last song comes on, the one where Gil stands on P�p�s head while I
sing my Duran Duran/Amadeus medley. So I�m reaching the climax, you
know, and this American blond is laughing with the pleasure! She is
really digging my vibe. 
	And so what happens?
	Nightmare, that�s what. 
	Round about the time, Clevis (he�s the accountant and the Meat Bar�s
clown, like I told you earlier, remember?) is supposed to come out on
the unicycle with his flaming torches and his fake penguins and then
when the big explosion happens, we all disappear under the stage;
magic! Crowd goes crazy!
	Except that�s not what happened, of course. Clevis rolls out on the
unicycle (which he still hasn�t gotten the hang of) and, of course,
falls down straight on his face, and drops the torches onto his head,
which sets his wig on fire. Not to mention that Mr. Hunt, as a little
trick on Tito, replaced his Duran Duran/Mozart tape with his rave
music so I�m sitting there lip-syncing to Technotronic like some hyper
chihuaua!
	Next thing I know BOOM! Lights explode and the twizzlers go off and
I�m blind. Clevis is screaming about his head on fire. Mr. Hunt is
pumping up the volume and I Gil and Pep� are rolling around on top of
each other like two crazy monkey-men. Then P�p� falls into the secret
door under the stage and Gil breaks his hand. Later, he would claim he
broke it during the Spanish/Icelandic War, until Mr. Wilson reminds
him that there was no such war. 
	Boy that gets him mad!
	Oh, well, that�s all I can tell you about the Meat Bar, right now. I
hear, Mr. Ekberg calling at me! Oh boy, he sounds mad. I bet his Atari
2600 is acting up again. He should have bought an Intellivision or at
least a Coleco.

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All characters copyright �
Brian Ekberg, Phil Wilson, Steve Hunt
All events are purely fictional and are 
the product of extremely deranged minds.
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