February 15. Malate is as busy as the night before. The restaurants and bars are filled with couples on last minute dates, with the drunk and the lonely who hope that they might still get lucky and have a Happy Valentine’s.
Around the corner from Nakpil Street, in the back alleys where the waiters, bartenders, and delivery boys gather during their break time, stories of the strange and unusual cast of Malate are reviewed and discussed.
They often talk about the little sampaguita girl and how if you ever bother to look at her eyes, you’ll notice her reptilian, vertical pupils. If you shoo her away and don’t buy flowers from her, she’ll stick out her forked tongue and spit at you.
Someone would usually mention that man with the bouquet of roses, seen at the corner where the street lamp never works. They say, if you happen to be standing there while waiting for a jeepney or taxi, you’ll suddenly notice this man standing right beside you. You’ll notice his polo shirt is damp with blood; that he’s not holding roses, but he’s desperately trying to push his intestines back into his stomach. He’ll look at you and plead, “Take my wallet. Please don’t kill me.” You run away and if you’re brave enough to look back, the man would be gone. “Take my wallet. Please don’t kill me,” his voice would echo down the road.
Of course, they’ll also tell you about the blind beggar at the park; how if you give him exactly three pesos he will tell you the exact date and manner of your death. Supposedly, for the right price, he will tell you how to avoid your predestined demise.
On this particular night, at the back alley of the Black Rose Bar, the waiters, bartenders, and delivery boys are talking about one particular lady. They have already placed their bets on whether or not she’ll appear tonight. Tonight, the customers will be annoyed that the waiters won’t be as attentive, that some of their orders will be wrong, all because the waiters will be keeping their eyes on the door, waiting for her to finally arrive.
They never do catch her walking through the doors of the Black Rose.
Bernie the bartender is always the first one to see her. Actually, she’d be the one who’d call his attention. While wiping the bar or serving another customer, he’d suddenly feel this fingernail tap him on the shoulder. He’d smell her perfume first before he’d look and know it was her.
She’d just be there, seated on one of the bar stools in her jacket. Her jacket that had the color of dried rose petals. Or was it more like the color of dried blood?
Read the complete story at:
http://diabolical13.blogspot.com/
Around the corner from Nakpil Street, in the back alleys where the waiters, bartenders, and delivery boys gather during their break time, stories of the strange and unusual cast of Malate are reviewed and discussed.
They often talk about the little sampaguita girl and how if you ever bother to look at her eyes, you’ll notice her reptilian, vertical pupils. If you shoo her away and don’t buy flowers from her, she’ll stick out her forked tongue and spit at you.
Someone would usually mention that man with the bouquet of roses, seen at the corner where the street lamp never works. They say, if you happen to be standing there while waiting for a jeepney or taxi, you’ll suddenly notice this man standing right beside you. You’ll notice his polo shirt is damp with blood; that he’s not holding roses, but he’s desperately trying to push his intestines back into his stomach. He’ll look at you and plead, “Take my wallet. Please don’t kill me.” You run away and if you’re brave enough to look back, the man would be gone. “Take my wallet. Please don’t kill me,” his voice would echo down the road.
Of course, they’ll also tell you about the blind beggar at the park; how if you give him exactly three pesos he will tell you the exact date and manner of your death. Supposedly, for the right price, he will tell you how to avoid your predestined demise.
On this particular night, at the back alley of the Black Rose Bar, the waiters, bartenders, and delivery boys are talking about one particular lady. They have already placed their bets on whether or not she’ll appear tonight. Tonight, the customers will be annoyed that the waiters won’t be as attentive, that some of their orders will be wrong, all because the waiters will be keeping their eyes on the door, waiting for her to finally arrive.
They never do catch her walking through the doors of the Black Rose.
Bernie the bartender is always the first one to see her. Actually, she’d be the one who’d call his attention. While wiping the bar or serving another customer, he’d suddenly feel this fingernail tap him on the shoulder. He’d smell her perfume first before he’d look and know it was her.
She’d just be there, seated on one of the bar stools in her jacket. Her jacket that had the color of dried rose petals. Or was it more like the color of dried blood?
Read the complete story at:
http://diabolical13.blogspot.com/
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