She was having none of it. All the bounders and joe palookas in the place had tried to strike up a conversation. But she wasn’t drinking what they were pouring.
At least the band kept up their end of the bargain.
She didn’t know it yet, but I had what she was missing.
Me? The name's Ten Inch Dark Star Gong. My Great Grand-Dad was Chinese somewhere in Asia. That's where I got the name Gong, but really, I was born somewhere in the universe that Einstein took some time off from living to describe. Me, I don't need to take time off, I just live.
And sometimes to keep living life in the round, you’ve got to have secrets tucked away in your corner.
As I sidled up next to the red-hair at the bar, I could already tell from her vibe that she was someone I could talk to.
I asked her what she was drinking. She answered, “It’s a secret.”
“That sounds delicious,” I smiled. "Make mine a double.”
“Pace yourself, Slugger,” she tossed back. “Let’s save some mystery for the honeymoon.”
“Don’t you worry, darling,” I said as I sipped. “I've got some plot twists even I don't understand.”
Before we knew it, both of us were overcome with the rumbling of our ice cubes and the reflections of the lights.
I told her about being a 10” Dark Star Gong. I told her about the complimentary mallet that I always carried with me.
It wasn't long until she heard my song, my deep and clear note, which is more profound than my small diameter would lead you to think.
I asked to share with me her secrets, but she wouldn't.
"I ain't the FBI. I ain't taking you to jail."
She finally relented, after I tickled her a little. Just like the guy below. And we realized our secrets weren't all that scary, at least not to us. A gong, and a lady with a head on her shoulders.