Miraj's Stick (A journey in writing like Spageti)
The double doors swung open, Miraj standing in the light.
“Gi-me a dr-eye marrteeny, barrtenor.” Miraj turned and spat on the floor.
“And, uh… what’ll be yur method a payment?”
Miraj quickly glanced to his left and then his right. He snorted and stood up, unzipped his pants.
He whipped out a big meat package, flopping it over on the counter.
It was like looking at a twenty inch roll of sausage links.
The Bartender looked up at Miraj, who was smiling. He winked as the bartender went to go get his drink. Miraj struggled to fit the big meaty package back into the fly of his pants. Everyone stared. Unable to handle the pressure, Miraj whipped out his cockles one last time.
He held the shaft out like a golf club. He swung backwards, people ducking as to not be teabagged by a package as mighty as this. He turned forwards again, his balls smashing through the wall of the bar, making a hole big enough for any man to fit through. Miraj walked out.
Miraj never uses the door.