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June 2008 Volume 10 , Issue 6 submit to us!

by RW Maynard -- Contributing Author [Email This Story]

On a recent trip to California I happened across a Hooters bar with an interesting Indian man sitting at a table in the corner. His name as he told me was Sumwhan Imknot Isbush and he owned this Hooters establishment. I could have sworn I had met him before. He told me how growing up in the east he had dreamed of owning a Hooters bar after seeing it on an American TV show through the window of International hotel. There was something about the way he held himself, the way he spoke with such certainty, but mostly the way his eyes had this knowing look like he knew something that the rest of the world could only speculate on. And his accent was unusual, not what I would have thought an Indian man would sound like. But hey he was shouting the beers and he had the loveliest hooters I’d ever seen delivering them.

Being from a little country at the bottom of the earth myself I am somewhat naïve and wasn’t up with the hooters etiquette. I knew that in a country as big as California I would be well served to keep a low profile as you never know what sort of characters you might meet. My mum had told me to watch out for shady characters and sifty old men in trench coats but I was fairly confident I could handle anything that came my way. I was roused from my thoughts when Sumwhan placed another beer in front of me and was a little embarrassed when I realised I had been staring at an exotic pair of hooters and they were smiling at me. Cheeks flushing red I concentrated on my beer and tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t be offensive or expose my lack of worldly knowledge.

"So . . . have you lived here long Mr Isbush?"

"Sumwhan Imknot Isbush, please just call me Sumwhan"

"OK Mr Sumwhan, what is the name of the lovely pair of Arab hooters?"

"Just Sumwhan and she is not Arab we have no Arab hooters here! We have every type of hooters in the world except Arab." He said just a little curtly.


"Her name is unimportant; she is from the Punjabi district in India so we call her Punjabi"

"I would like to jab that pune" I muttered. "Can I call her Punane?"

"You can call her what you like Mr.... what is your name?

"Ryan but I’m from New Zealand so you can just call me ‘Kiwi’ if you like?"

"Kiwi it is! Free beer and a pair of hooters of your choice to look after you all night!"

"Shit. Are you serious? Thanks man"

I couldn’t believe it. Luck was on my side. With all the bad people in the world I had met a respectable man with his own hooters bar and a generous spirit too. So three hours later and more beers than I can remember I was pretty pissed and Sumwhan told me there was a couple of pairs of hooters who went out the back every night on their break to smoke hooters. I thought ‘this I gotta see’ and all sorts of scenarios about nipples so hot they smoked were running around my head. My hopes were on the rubbing of nipple on nipple till they caught fire and me on hand to smother the flames. My naivety was exposed again ’cause when I got there they were just sharing a cigarette, which they shared with me too, I think hooters must have there own brand or something. It made me cough and they laughed at me and one of them said something about you have to cough to get off. I started to feel a little light headed and went back inside to the security of my seat. Sumwhan was sitting across from me drinking some strong smelling white liquor and so drunk he was muttering about the stupid fuckers think he’s in a cave in Afghanistan and Allah being pissed off about Sumwhan having shaved of his beard. I was a little concerned as a brief ‘sober moment’ came across me and slight paranoia.

"You don’t wear a trench coat do you?" I asked.

Sumwhan just looked at me blankly as if trying to work out where I had appeared from. I had that strange feeling of having met him before, again, and asked him if he was OK.

"I am awesome, been laden.... ah la ack bar?"

"Glad to hear it. Yes it is a lovely bar but I would have thought you blessed with such a bar not laden Mr Isbush" I said, probably slurring as much as Sumwhan.

"Sumwhan Imknot Isbush!" He shouted as he slammed his glass on the table.

"I am Sumwhan...... I am Sumwhan" he started muttering again as his eyes glazed over and he put his empty glass to his lips.

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Features -- June 2008 -- Beginning Month Issue

RW Maynard
-- Additional Work --