Marmalade’s Spicy Chicken Obsession

 

Marmalade’s Spicy Chicken Obsession

Boston, 1988. The big orange cat had many vices — laziness, superiority, and a wandering heart — but none compared to his unholy love of spicy chicken.

It started innocently enough.

One rainy night, Marmalade had slipped out the office window for his usual prowl. He landed in the alley behind the Chinese laundry and discovered heaven in a dented metal dumpster: leftover General Tso’s chicken that had been tossed out after the dinner rush. The sauce was thick, sticky, and loaded with chili flakes. The heat hit his tongue like a velvet hammer.

From that moment on, Marmalade was hooked.

He became a creature of ritual.

Every evening, around 9:30 p.m., the big orange lummox would saunter out of the office, tail high, and make the three-block pilgrimage to the alley behind Won Ton Palace. He had a system:

1. Wait until the last customer left.
2. Knock over exactly one trash can for dramatic effect.
3. Dive head-first into the spicy chicken section like it was his personal throne.

Brogan tried to curb the habit. “You’re gonna give yourself heartburn, you fat orange idiot.” Marmalade responded by ignoring him completely and coming back smelling like garlic and regret.

Dave found the whole thing hilarious. He would ride on Brogan’s shoulder during stakeouts and chitter mockingly whenever Marmalade returned with sauce on his whiskers and a slightly dazed look in his green eyes.

The obsession got serious during the Super Corn investigation.

One night, while the gang was staking out the Mystic River silos, Marmalade disappeared for four hours. Brogan was ready to call it a night when the big cat finally returned… covered in spicy chicken sauce, eyes half-lidded in bliss, and dragging a half-empty takeout container behind him like a trophy.

Dave took one look and chattered furiously: You abandoned us for chicken?!

Marmalade gave the world’s most dignified shrug, licked a paw, and purred like a broken engine. Translation: Priorities.

But the obsession nearly cost him everything during the cat-show kidnapping.

When the show freaks snatched him, Marmalade was mid-dive into his favorite dumpster. They mistook the sauce-covered orange blur for a “magnificent new champion” and stuffed him into a carrier while he was still chewing.

For three days in captivity, Marmalade refused to eat the bland kibble they offered. He sat in his gilded cage, staring at the wall, dreaming of chili oil and crispy bits.

When Dave and Brogan finally busted him out, the first thing Marmalade did — before even acknowledging his rescuers — was make a beeline for the nearest dumpster behind the warehouse.

He emerged five minutes later, face covered in spicy General Tso’s, looking like a battle-worn king who had just reclaimed his throne.

Brogan watched him with a tired grin. “You nearly got yourself turned into a show cat… for spicy chicken?”

Marmalade flicked his tail once, then walked over and bumped his big orange head against Brogan’s leg — the closest thing to gratitude the cat ever gave.

Dave climbed onto Marmalade’s back, still grumbling, but didn’t bite him.

Later that night, back in the office, Brogan set out a small paper plate of leftover spicy chicken he’d picked up on the way home.

Marmalade ate slowly for once, savoring every bite. When he was done, he didn’t immediately demand more. Instead, he jumped onto the desk, curled up next to Dave, and let out the deepest, most contented purr Brogan had ever heard from him.

Brogan raised his scotch. “To spicy chicken,” he said. “The one thing that can make even the wandering king come home.”

Dave chattered softly in agreement.

Marmalade flicked his tail… then leaned over and gently bumped his head against Dave’s side.

The obsession wasn’t going anywhere.

But for the first time, the big orange cat seemed to understand that some things — like good friends and a warm office — were worth coming back for… even if the spicy chicken was what got him out the door in the first place.

The End.

Cheaters Tavern: The Princess & the Revolving Door

 

Cheaters Tavern: The Princess & the Revolving Door

Cheaters Tavern on Washington Street had one simple rule that nobody ever wrote down: the regulars ran the place. The bouncers were just temporary scenery.

Pat, the owner, was a short, bald Irishman with a voice like gravel soaked in whiskey. He’d owned the joint since the late ’70s and understood one truth above all others: you could hire muscle, but you couldn’t hire loyalty. The regulars — Tommy, Greg, Terry, and the rest of the old crew — kept the peace better than any paid doorman ever could.

The revolving door of bouncers proved it week after week.

---

Week 1: Big Mike

Big Mike was six-foot-six and built like a fridge. First night on the door, he decided he was going to “clean the place up.”

He started by throwing out three regulars for “looking at him funny.” By midnight he’d tried to card Sue “Mount for” Joy (who had been dancing there longer than he’d been alive). At 1:30 a.m. he told a group of off-duty cops they had to leave because “the energy felt wrong.”

Tommy walked over, calm as ever. “Mike, pal. Those cops are customers. The girls like them. The girls tip better when the cops are happy. You throw the cops out, the girls get mad, the tips dry up, and Pat gets mad. You see where this is going?”

Big Mike didn’t listen.

At 2:17 a.m. he tried to bounce one of the Iron Horsemen for “looking at him wrong.” The biker laughed, then introduced Mike’s face to the sidewalk.

Big Mike lasted six days.

---

Week 2: Razor

Razor was a former boxer with a shaved head and a permanent scowl. He lasted longer — nine days.

He tried to enforce a “no swearing” policy. He tried to stop the girls from sitting with customers between sets. He even tried to tell Pat how to run the bar.

On night nine, the Princess of Pelvic Perversion arrived for her special one-night show.

She was a legend from the Toronto scene — a tall, statuesque performer known for moves that made even hardened bouncers blush. Word had spread. The place was packed. Off-duty cops, regulars, a few Iron Horsemen behaving themselves, and one very nervous Razor at the door.

The Princess took the stage to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” The crowd lost its mind.

Halfway through her set, a drunk tourist tried to climb on stage. Razor moved in fast, grabbed the guy by the collar, and started dragging him toward the door — a little too roughly.

Tommy stood up from his usual booth. “Easy, Razor. He’s just drunk. No need to break his arm.”

Razor ignored him and kept dragging.

That was when Terry — Brogan’s old partner, still sober, still with that thick Irish accent — stepped in.

“Son,” Terry said quietly, “the girls don’t like it when you handle the customers like meat. The girls are happy, the customers spend money. You hurt the customers, the girls get mad. You see the problem?”

Razor told Terry to fuck off.

The Princess paused mid-dance, looked down at the commotion, and simply said into the microphone:

“Boys… play nice. Or I’m taking my pelvis somewhere else.”

The entire bar went dead silent.

Razor let the tourist go. The Princess finished her set to thunderous applause. When she came off stage, she walked straight up to Pat at the bar.

“Nice place,” she said. “But your new bouncer has the manners of a brick. Fire him before he scares away my fans.”

Pat nodded. Razor was gone by closing time.

---

Week 3: The Princess Returns

The Princess liked Cheaters so much she came back for a second show two weeks later — this time for a full weekend.

Word had spread up and down the East Coast. The place was standing-room only. Even a few Boston cops in plain clothes showed up, including one old sergeant who had known Brogan back in the day.

This time Pat hired a new doorman named Lenny — quiet, polite, built like a fire hydrant. Lenny lasted the entire weekend.

Why?

Because when a rowdy group of out-of-towners got too handsy with the girls, it wasn’t Lenny who handled it.

It was the regulars.

Tommy quietly suggested they take it outside. Greg stood up and blocked the path to the stage. Terry gave them the calm Irish stare that had broken tougher men than them. Even Brogan, who had dropped in with Dave on his shoulder and Marmalade trailing behind, simply said:

“Gentlemen. The ladies are working. Show some respect.”

The out-of-towners backed down immediately.

Lenny watched the whole thing and learned the golden rule of Cheaters: the bouncer doesn’t control the crowd. The regulars do.

At the end of the second night, the Princess came off stage, walked straight to the bar, and bought a round for the entire regular crew.

“To the real security,” she said, raising her glass. “The ones who don’t need to throw their weight around.”

Tommy grinned. “Welcome back anytime, Princess.”

---

The New Normal

After that weekend, Pat stopped hiring big, loud bouncers. He started hiring guys who knew how to listen.

The revolving door slowed down.

The regulars kept running the place the way they always had — quietly, efficiently, and with just enough attitude to remind everyone that Cheaters wasn’t just a strip joint.

It was a neighborhood.

And on the best nights — when the Princess was on stage, the beer was cold, the cops were laughing in the back, and the Iron Horsemen were behaving themselves for once — you could feel it.

A good night at Cheaters wasn’t about who was working the door.

It was about who was sitting at the tables, standing at the bar, and keeping the peace without ever needing to throw a punch.

The End.

https://youtu.be/pDDDiAnnqok?si=umVnrCI3WWDpwnUb

Cheaters Tavern: Hundred-Dollar Hustle

 

Cheaters Tavern: Hundred-Dollar Hustle

The neon sign outside Cheaters Tavern on Washington Street buzzed like an angry hornet. Inside, it was a perfect Friday night in Boston, 1988 — smoke thick enough to cut with a pool cue, rock and roll thumping from the jukebox, and Sue “Mount for” Joy working the stage like she was feeding the front row for a month.

In the back, the pool table was the center of the universe.

Tommy (long blond hair, perpetual Coke in hand) was leaning on his cue, laughing. Greg, one of the old Cheaters regulars, was chalking up. Terry — Brogan’s former partner, now clean and sober, still with that thick Irish accent — was watching with a grin, nursing a ginger ale.

A group of Iron Horsemen bikers had taken over two booths near the stage, leather cuts creaking, beers flowing. They were loud, but not stupid-loud. Just the usual Friday night energy.

Then the loud mouth walked in.

He was a big guy in a cheap suit, gold chain flashing, toothpick in his mouth. He racked the balls with a loud clack and announced to the room:

“Hundred a game. Any takers? Or are all you Boston boys scared of a little action?”

The room went quiet for a second. Nobody moved. Playing pool for a hundred bucks against a stranger in Cheaters was like volunteering to get your wallet lifted and your pride stepped on.

Tommy smirked. “Pass.”

Greg shook his head. “Not tonight.”

Terry just chuckled and took another sip of ginger ale.

The loud mouth laughed, loud and obnoxious. “That’s what I thought. Bunch of cheap bastards.”

He was about to rack again when a calm voice cut through the noise from the bar.

“Sure. I’ll play. Hundred or nothing.”

Everyone turned.

James Brogan stood there in his rumpled coat, fedora tipped back, Camel burning between his fingers. Dave the Hamster was perched on his shoulder like a tiny bodyguard. Marmalade the Cat was sprawled on the bar, looking bored but interested.

The loud mouth sized Brogan up and grinned. “You? Old man? Fine. Hundred bucks. Let’s go.”

Brogan walked over, set his beer down, and picked up a cue. “Actually… let’s make it interesting. Hundred or nothing. We play for nothing.”

The loud mouth blinked. “What?”

Brogan smiled the tired, dangerous smile. “You heard me. If I win, you pay nothing. If you win, I pay you nothing. We just play. Pride only.”

The bikers started laughing. Tommy nearly spit out his Coke. Even Sue paused mid-grind on stage to watch.

The loud mouth’s face turned red. “You’re on, old man.”

They lagged for break. Brogan won it.

The game started.

Brogan played like a man who had spent twenty-five years on the force learning patience. Smooth strokes, perfect position, never rushing. The loud mouth played loud — slamming balls, trash-talking, trying to rattle him.

By the fourth game, the loud mouth was down three–one and sweating.

The whole bar had gathered around the table. Girls from the stage had come down to watch, beers were flowing, and even the Iron Horsemen had stopped talking to see how this played out.

On the final game, the loud mouth had one ball left and the eight. He lined up a tricky bank shot, talking the whole time.

“Watch this, grandpa.”

He missed by an inch.

Brogan stepped up, sank his last three balls with surgical precision, and then called the eight in the corner pocket. The ball dropped clean.

Game over.

The loud mouth stood there, cue in hand, mouth open.

Brogan leaned on his stick and said, loud enough for the whole room to hear:

“Maybe I should take that hundred after all.”

The bar exploded. Cheers, laughter, girls clapping. Tommy slapped the bar. Terry raised his ginger ale in salute. Even the bikers were grinning.

The loud mouth reached for his wallet, red-faced. Brogan waved him off.

“Keep your money. Just remember — next time you walk into Cheaters talking big, make sure you can back it up.”

The loud mouth slunk out. The jukebox kicked back up. Sue returned to the stage with extra energy. Beers started flowing again.

Brogan walked back to the bar, Dave still on his shoulder looking smug, Marmalade watching with lazy approval.

Tommy slid him a fresh Narragansett. “Nice shooting, Private Dick.”

Brogan took a long pull. “Some nights you play for money. Some nights you play for pride. And some nights… you just remind the loud mouths that Boston still has teeth.”

Around the pool table, the night rolled on — girls dancing, bikers laughing, old friends shooting the shit, and one very satisfied ex-cop who had just turned a hundred-dollar hustle into a perfect lesson in humility.

It was a good night at Cheaters.

A very good night.

The End.