It was a cold Christmas Eve. Once again, I was spending the evening with all my friends and relations. Yep, I was alone in a booth in a the best dive bar in Hell’s Kitchen with my Mac, a sword and sorcery paperback I’d read before, and a cheap brewski.

I was listening to Eartha Kitt on the jukebox because a cute blonde babe with more cash than me had played it. But as 'Santa Baby' was my favorite Christmas song, I fantasized she had played it just for me. To soften me up, so she could have her way with me.

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If you'd like to descend to the same astral plane I was hanging out on, I suggest you draw yourself a pint, and listen to Eartha softly in the background as you read. Or turn her off, if your multitasking skills aren't up to it.

This was to be the evening I met temptress Gun-Molly Walsh, and it took her no time at all to rock my beery little world.

I’d soon hear that this hyperactive grad student fantasized that she was an enforcer of a nefarious Hell's Kitchen gang with their own secret weapons, co-invented with Stephan Hawking. Maybe it wasn’t a total fantasy. But I would not find out one way or the other until much later that particular Christmas Eve.

When the blonde saw me in my regular booth at Rudy’s, the big one in the back where I can plug my Mac into a power source, she sorta smiled at me. It was one of those crooked little smiles that if I were under 30 again instead of double that, it would have meant something. But I knew from experience that it only meant she needed glasses badly, or she wanted something. If the latter, that was okay with me. Whatever I have left, pretty young women with strawberry blonde hair and pretty legs in pretty short miniskirts and high black boots can have — with seconds. Assuming I could come up with seconds.

If I could afford business cards with an office address, it’d be Rudy’s Bar in Hell’s Kitchen, NYC. Rudy’s had everything — including inspirational characters Damon Runyon would have loved. Old Westies. Actors, some of whom even worked. Dealers. Hookers, pro and prosumer. Unemployed musicians. Songwriters looking for a 'cut' to reinvigorate careers that were never vigorated. Guys on SSI who seemed to live in the last century. Dudes with handles like Jersey Mike, Little George, Guru, Georgie The Hat, Panama, Gianni Pasta, Ramrod, and the Colonel. Then there’s Dandy the Manager who looks like he stepped out of a Barbershop quartet. I must mention Yo the hot barmaid, who remembers my name and remembers what I drink, which is whatever is cheapest. And then there were semi-retired, and semi-employed guys like me looking for a warm place to waste away a winter afternoon.

Other advantages of Rudy’s Bar included the beers, which were the cheapest in NYC, a restroom that wasn’t the cleanest, and hot dogs that were the freeist — with mustard,

But wait, there was more! I got a free WiFi connection to hook up on the web, and if I timed it right so I get this big booth in the back, I could get a power hook-up.

In addition to all this, if I wanted to go upscale using my EBT food-stamp card, I could walk down the street to the market and bring back a jar of Planters cashews without Yo or Dandy giving me the evil eye. Rudy’s was practically heaven for a semi-almost-not-quite-derelict blog-head like me.

As it was Christmas Eve in the early evening, it wasn’t as crowded as it usually is with the Yuppies, who like slumming, and drive out the real customers by ordering expensive drinks and actually tipping. You know the kind of people I mean, the damn curve breakers in high school.

Back to the young lady in the red miniskirt. She was showing a matching colored bra under her thin white blouse. She took a look at what looked like an iPhone or a GPS device , then walked directly over to my booth and said, “Hi.”

That’s all she had to say. I said, “Yes.”

“Yes? To what?”

“Whatever.”

“I think you’re too easy.”

“The easiest,” I agreed. Why play hard to get when there isn’t that much to get anymore.

She bent over a bit letting me ogle the lace on her red bra, “Are you like on the web?” she whispered. She smelled a bit like pine. Like a Christmas tree that’d just been watered.

“Yeah.” I wanted to say something really witty and charming, but I said, “Yeah.”

The blonde leaned over, rubbed her finger across the top of my Mac, and asked, “May I check my email?”

“Sure.” I considered making a comment about the speed of my hook-up and the size of my ram, but I resisted, as neither is any more impressive than my other attributes.

She sat down at the booth and gave me a bit of a hip bump to move me over although it was a booth that could hold a basketball team. I love this bar. Of course, other than Yo the bartender, there weren’t that many pretty ladies to get hip-bumped by, and I only got hip-bumped by Yo in my fantasies, although she once hit me in the face with a bar rag. But as my favorite philosopher once said, "I think I deserved that."

I watched the hip-bumper as her fast fingers frolicked over my keyboard. Okay, maybe she just typed, but in my imagination what she was going at least as far as frolicking fingers.

The old Westies at the bar were giving me a number of different looks, ranging from curious to nasty. I assumed Murphy, Madden, and the Sick Mick had already tried buying her a drink and failed. I gave them one of my patented shit eating grins that makes people want to pound me into beer soaked sawdust. And from their looks, it sure enough worked.

The babe's email name seemed to be GunMolly. Yes, I peeked. So, I’m nosy. At least I didn’t spend the whole time checking out her red half-bra. Yes, it was half and the other half was her. I even barely glanced at the tops of her thighs between her red-striped stockings and what dreams are made of. At least my dreams.

Next: Christmas Rapping