Gazoogabloga

I walked into Pete's Diner wearing a trench coat and brand new leather shoes. I was feeling sleek and gazoogabloga as hell.

“Hey, Jim, my man, gazoogabloga,” I said to the man at the register and snapped my fingers at him.

“Right back at you, Carter,” he said and snapped his fingers right back at me.

This place was my usual haunt. I knew everybody here, even Pete the owner.

I ordered my usual, eggs, potatoes and a coffee. It was going to be a late night.

I finished eating and the waiter came up to me to hand me the check and ask me how my food was.

“Thanks for asking, Bob. It was a little… salty… tonight,” I said.

“Salty, you say? Come with me,” Bob said. Salty was the secret word to get to the diners back room, which was used for gambling. Tonight was poker night.

Bob lead me to a table he called ‘the lucky table’ and I sat down.

The dealer dealt his cards, then ours. I had a three of a kind in my hand, I’d probably win.

Pete the owner approached me and put his hand on my shoulder.

“How are you feeling tonight, Carter?” He asked.

“Gazoogabloga, Pete. Very Gazoogabloga!”

Copyright © 10/19/2023 by A.H. Mittelman. All rights reserved