Chronographia


Chronographia (chro-no-graph’-i-a): Vivid representation of a certain historical or recurring time (such as a season) to create an illusion of reality. A kind of enargia: [the] generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description.


Bartender: “Happy Hour! What time is it boys and girls?

It’s Happy Hour! Drinks are half price! This is one of the last opportunities in the world to get what you pay for! Bottom shelf booze for what it’s worth!“

Me: “Bartender! Give me 3 shots of vodka and a “Big Beer.” I’m ready to get shitfaced. Here’s my driver’s license. All in good order. Although I don’t look it, I’m fifty-four. I’m from Florida. Let’s go!”

Bartender: “Here you go son! As long as you can ask, I’ll keep ‘em coming. This is the bar where Knucky Mayhem got his start, betting on himself in bar fights. Some would last an hour before some wimp would call the police. He never killed anybody, but happy hour was when he let loose. Just before happy hour ended he would insult somebody roughly his size and punch them on the shoulder. Then, things would roll. The longest fight was 2 hours—a grueling bloody, smelly, grunting thriller. It was almost Knucky’s downfall. Knucky’s opponent was sent in by the Mob to win a little cash. The Mob’s boy was a professional boxer named “Rocky Barcelona.” He kicked Knucky’s ass up and down this very floor. Knucky lost a grand that night, but he didn’t give up on barroom fighting. Last we heard, he was kicking ass at “Billy Bob’s” in Dallas, Texas.”

Suddenly the barroom door squeaked open. There was Knucky standing there. He had a patch over one eye and you could tell he was wearing an adult diaper under his black sweat pants. He had on a white T-shirt with “KNUCKY” printed on it. When he walked toward the bar, you could hear his joints click and squeak. He had a briefcase. He put it on the bar and opened it. It was filled with hundred dollar bills.

Knucky: “There’s 500 grand in there. Somebody put up a hundred against my 500 grand, and we’ll have at it for the dough.”

Me: His voice was slurred like he was brain-damaged and his body was a wreck. I had just been paid at Bartelli’s Deli. It was a cinch. I was the first to volunteer, so I got the fight. Knucky tossed his cane away and pulled off the eye patch. His joints stopped making noises. He patted his diaper and yelled “Empty!” He stepped into the light. He looked 18.

Knucky: “Do you believe in ghosts?” You better believe in this one,” he growled as he punched me between the eyes, sunk his fist in my solar plexus like a jackhammer, and pounded on my kidneys like he was making dough.

Me: I woke up on my bedroom floor. My nose was bleeding and I hurt all over. Knucky was hovering over me.

Knucky: “Don’t worry chump, you’re dreaming. This is my eternal fate. Get up off the damn floor and get back to bed.”

Me: When I got up, I felt no pain, there was no bleeding, and Knucky had disappeared. I Googled him the next day and discovered he was dead, killed fighting in Panama. It was rumored that he “haunted” bars looking for fights, putting incredible odds on a half-million dollars to suck somebody into fighting him.

I had been sucked in! I would never fight again.


Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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