Maeengan's Wolf Den

Where Maeengan is free to ramble on about his life in the middle of the Canadian praires.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

The Devil on the Strip (between the 70’s and 80’s)

* Here's a poem about an urban legend I discoverd this summer while chatting with my cousin over beers and chicken wings in downtown Winnipeg. We were talking about spirits in the bush, when I asked if he ever heard of the Devil being seen in Winnipeg bars down on the Main Street strip in the 1970's. He was like, "Yeah! I've heard that story before!"

The story is this . . . a mysterious well-dressed stranger buys a round for the bar. In Winnipeg, the 'strip' back in the 70's, was a meeting ground for young Indians and Metis people to have a good time. There were about a half-dozen bars that became central focal point on the weekend, or when people had cash for a good time. So, this guy buys a round of beer, and at the end of the night, when he is leaving the bar. He is seen to have hooves for feet and a tail.

I've spoken to about 20-30 Indian and Metis people, not connected to each other, and they've either heard from a relative, or know somebody that know somebody that have've seen him. It's a collective memory within Winnipeg's Aboriginal community that is hard believe and easy to dismiss. I mean, who's going to believe a bunch of drunk Indians and Metis people that they've seen the Devil on a Friday night, eh?

But, here we go . . .

The Devil on the Strip (between the 70’s and 80’s)
Maeengan Linklater
December 6th, 2005


Lost little girl,
asking me for $ 85 cents,
for two glasses of draft,
down at the Brunswick Hotel.

Christmas decorations,
Hang from cigarette stained-walls,
Budweiser neon light,
reflects off the mirror ball.

Gangsters play pool,
bragging of tits, ass,
and drug trips,
fueled by pills and needles.

“Codine, man,
makes you see the future.
I was soo fucked last night,
like Jim Morrison.”

Don’t worry about the $ 85 cents.
Give me what I want,
and, I’ll buy you a six-pack.

Exploitation hides from the street lights
and in the shadows,
blurred by beer and whiskey shots.

Have another one – it’s alright.

Perhaps, you’ve heard of me.

The Rolling Stones,
sang a song about a man,
‘of wealth and taste’.

Except you wouldn’t believe,
a bunch of Indians,
who’ve seen the Devil,
down on the strip.

I’ll give you what you want,
‘cause, you have where else to go.

You know who I am,
but, you don’t care,
where you get your next beer.
You don’t care,
where the next party is,
because the next round is on me.

I’m an urban legend,
told at parties,
after the bar has closed,
forgotten in a morning hangover.

Nobody will admit,
I’ve given them a beer,
nobody will admit,
their soul is mine.

Nothing is free.