We were having a few beers with the usual crew: Sweaty, French, Bruce Fish, Pancake, Lonesome 50 and me, Old Ollie. Usual group, usual place, usual beers - until sweaty finally coaxed Lonesome 50 to tell a story from World War 2.
Sweaty kept buying Lonesome 50 his favourite, and namesake, Labatt 50 quarts. He just jumped into the story after being silent for most of the night:
My job was to drive up ahead and do a bit of scouting; avoid German and Italian troops and report back. I'd go ahead to the next village and buy up all the wine and spirits, and hide it. I'd resell it to our lads as they caught up.
By the end of the war I was a liquor tycoon. I'd just repeat that process over and over. I just tried to survive, make a bit of coin, and supply me brethren with fine booze. When the war was over I went straight, worked the trains; but that was a damn fine business.
We bought him another round after that fine tale.
4 comments:
Lonesome 50 -- because there's always only one guy in the gang drinking 50. And there's a really, really good reason for that.
Good story OO. I have always liked Lonesome 50. A deep soul...seen too much...maybe a bit broke down...nothing a few 50 quarts can't fix.
A fine write for Armistice Day.
Thanks for stopping by and commenting. I'll eventually get another poem posted if I get out of my lazy rut I'm in.
That is a very fine tale, indeed, to mark Armistice Day. I will definitely come back to hear what other stories get told between you and your compatriots...
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