For Thursday, 10/1: story to read and discuss

Story by Tom Greffin for 10/1

Just as a quick note for the students reading it: most of the elements that may or may not confuse you in the story were intentional, and I'll be happy to explain anything and everything in class.

The bar is dingy; the dim lighting conceals the worst of the deep-seated grime. This wasn’t just dirt, or dust; these were the stains that gave that bald cleaning guy nightmares, that sent him screaming for a mop and bucket. You look around at the patrons, and you have to wonder if they even care. You look down at yourself, what you look like here… and you wonder if you should care either.
I pulled up a stool at the bar, and sat down on a warm seat. Ah, as odd as it may seem, those were always the best. Sure, you might be sitting where some biker or punk was probably born, screaming and bloody, but hey, it could always be worse. The bartender favored me with the look I swear they all patent; that look that makes you wonder if they’re patient enough to take your order for a drink, or just call a bouncer over to hold you while he works you over and takes your wallet as an afterthought.
-Drink?
-What have you got?
A mug of beer gets slapped down in front of me. It stirs up a little of the grime that’s caked on the bar, and adds just a bit more of a burning smell to the fetid air. The glass has seen better days: rough blown, misshapen, and streaked with dirt, it’s filled nearly to the brim with beer that has no froth to speak of. I take a large gulp of it, and manage it without a change of expression and, miraculously enough, without choking. It’s piss-warm… and to judge from the leering smile my gulp gets out of him, I can guess what it’s flavored with. I ask my tongue’s forgiveness as I take another swallow down, trying to avoid swishing and tasting.
-Battery acid?
The leering grin stretches from ear to ear, and somehow manages to not look menacing. He leans forward at my inquiry, the bright lights in the back of his black eyes dancing with delight.
-Just for color.
A quick appraisal of the “beer” tells me just how much color it added to the liquid.
-Any particular reason I’m here?
-That’s not mine to answer boy.
Typical. Bartenders like this are always such complete fuck-sticks.
-In that case, I’ll leave.
I throw a silver coin onto the bar and leave the mug unfinished, pushing myself up to leave. The barkeep’s hand shoots out and smashes into my wrists, pinning them to the bar.
-I wouldn’t.
The violence in him has never changed, but now, it’s more dangerous than ever. I can’t even react without getting my feet out from under the bar, and by the time I can do that he’ll have had the time to gouge out my eyes, eat them, and clean his fingers off. And with him, that would only be the beginning.
-Tell me why I’m here chief.
Gamble. Big one. He knows he’s got the leverage at the moment; question is, will he use it?
-No quarrel with you, little man. Boss is in the back room.
Full house to his two pair. I won… for now at least. As his hands leave my wrists I whip backwards, bounce off the floor with the balls of my feet, and land a stinging blow onto his right eye. All before the stool even gets halfway to the ground. By the time he registers what happened, and as the stool crashes down, I’ve got my right hand, like a spear, less than an inch from his left eye, cocked and ready to power straight forward. He nearly laughs.
-Go ahead.
I straighten up, brush the grime off my sleeves, and walk towards the back door.
-I gave that up.
The bastard actually laughed. Sick fuck.
The office door is impressive. Black, of course. Red trim on the brass handles. Wry grin on my part; the bastard at least always knew how to look good. Or maybe he just always had that damnable pride. Little bit of both I suppose. The office is impressive, to say the least; red walls with scars of black adorning in odd intervals, almost seeming to make the walls pulse. Odd decorations, considering the one sitting in the chair looking at me and his unique tastes. There were, of course, the obligatory paintings; of a somewhat darker nature than usually found in a boss’s office. I turned away, slightly repulsed at the sight of one of them. In my opinion, pokers should never leave a fireplace for any reason. My host chuckled lightly.
-You can always count on the Baptists, my friend.
I ignored the invitation to speak, and instead sat myself onto a chair with the comfort level of, roughly speaking, a flaming piece of charcoal. Charcoal crafted from the ashes of hope. I refused to betray any sense of discomfort, however; it was hard enough accepting the invitation to this meeting. Too many old memories here.
-Down to business then?
I flashed something passing for a grin. It was a weak attempt at one, but hey, considering the circumstances?
-I suppose.
The fire is back in his eyes. God, it’s been so long since it’s been there. I remember the last time we spoke; ages past… there had been nothing there. They had been dull: his debate lost, consigned to exile, out here in the back of beyond. We’d spent a long time nursing drinks that night; the boss who’d lost in his bid to the Big Boss, and brought some of his friends with him. We’d all needed drinks that night.
-Why did you invite me?
Best to be blunt, right?
-I thought you should see what I did with the place.
I couldn’t help it; I’m a sarcastic sum-bitch.
-Looks like hell.
That grin hasn’t ever changed. I wonder if it ever will. Or the fangs and snake-oil tongue hiding behind them.
-Thanks for the compliment.