Rollie Morgan was drunk. The sort of drunk that Marvelous Marv, hunching slightly in the adjacent stool, tapping his unlit Tareyton in five-four time atop the sticky bar, had come to refer to in his companion as “Foghorn Leghorn drunk.” Tonight, for the fourth night in a row, sixty-three-year-old Rollie Morgan was holding court at The Moon Temple, a queasily lit Chinese restaurant lounge populated with three television sets, a dozen bulbous, carbuncled red candle holders, and the faint but unmistakable bouquet of deep fried fat and mop water. Doug, the proprietor, was about as Chinese as Dolph Lundgren.

Continue reading Rollie vs. Them by Jonathan Evison