Each visit is different, to say the least; body against body, a beer, stool, table, and a bartender for a while.
Then enters the gentleman, politicians soon follow, batches of tourists, always in batches, and the same old comments by the same star-struck, gold-would-be-miner tourists.
“Look at that pistol! Was it really Wyatt Earp’s?”
“How’d all those life preservers get on the wall?”
“Whoops! I just went into the lady’s bathroom.”
And then two fishermen entered. Each ordered a pitcher of beer and a shot of whiskey.
Whores don’t usually work the Red Dog, but tonight they seek the tourists.
Tattoo John isn’t here tonight, but the lady with the red rose tattooed on her breast is.
She doesn’t remember me; just as well.
Pitcher of beer spilled by drunk fisherman.
Indignant tourist cursed him.
Fisherman flattens him on the floor, looks around, then saunters out with his buddy.
The Governor is not here, but in come several legislators escorting ladies, probably secretaries.
They are young ladies about to be politicked.
Yes, the Red Dog Saloon is alive and breathing again,
Its heart beats strong.
Reputation longer than the poets before, now, and the young ones waiting to belly-up-to-the-bar, pen in hand, and beer napkins to sketch their version of the infamous Red Dog Saloon.