The out of order sign hung over the stall in Fiona's Chicago north bar. The cold winter night line to use commode was out the door and around the corner near a dark alley that sparked electric fire wires fallen.
The aroma of throw up choked the windy city air and parking meters were expired. Mercilessly the meter maid ticketed car after car with a hefty fine.
It was 1981 and a young Irish rock band streamed the airwaves and wooed the crowds. The smiling bouncers nodded off all the late guests waving the cover charges of twenty dollars.
Suddenly the out of order bathroom stall sign was gone and a woman with long black hair pale skin vodka in her hand and bloody knees was relieving herself on the fence covered toilet bowel flooded with dried up diarrea and throw up.
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