Big Roger
These Things Matter
Never approach Big Rog from the right.
Don’t ask why. There’s no need.
He’s the lion in the room. You know where he is. Lying in wait, pawing and combing at his moustache, looking about through the thick, dark glasses. His presence is enormous: bellowing, berating, fists pounding the bar, always buying the next round.
“Who the fuck do I have to fuck to get a drink around here?”
Love.
Hate.
Pussy.
“Jim Beam, motherfucker, and a shot for my friend here.”
These things matter.
This is all there is.
He growls and shouts. He has overwhelming hands. They take full possession of your arm, pulling you in as he relives bygone years in heart attacks, war, and ex-wives.
You are now a willing and necessary hostage. Wait until he growls again.
He’ll let go.
“Who the fuck do I have to fuck to get a drink around here?”
Love and Hate.
That’s all there is.
“I’m sixty-fucking one years old. Three fucking heart attacks and two divorces. Blown through fucking hundreds of fucking thousands of dollars. Fuck it. Love and Hate. That’s all there fucking is.”
Caught in his grip, you don’t argue. You already know. In your heart, you can’t help but agree.
That’s all there fucking is.
Don’t ever approach Big Rog from the right. Don’t ask unless you want to learn the hard way.
Love and Hate.
That’s it.
The script tattooed across his fingers will tell you the same.
L-O-V-E is left.
H-A-T-E is right.
Roger’s hands are the opposite of God’s.
Big Rog doesn’t fucking care.
perfection.