Part 7
The front door of Fast and Loose swung closed with an unheard creak, the pulsing sounds of late-decade techno boucing off of the walls. The bartender looked up from his cigarette and watched a disheveled man shuffle over to the bar, frowning. Something was wrong with the way he walked, or stood. His posture was unnatural.
“What can I getcha?” asked the bartender, leaning against the far side of the bar.
Pale eyes looked out at him from under scraggly bangs. He felt himself judged in those moments, the repetitive thumping of the music softly accenting the long moments that passed. “I’m looking for someone,” the man replied.
“Aren’t we all?” shot back the bartender, losing interest rapidly. “Look buddy, you want a drink, or what?”
Again he fell under the scrutiny of those pale eyes, beginning to see in them someone he most definitely wanted to leave his place of business. When no answer was forthcoming, the bartender nervously inched his hand along a shelf under the bar, towards the sawed-off he kept there for just such a case. He was interrupted in his movements by a belated reply.
“Brofnakken. He and his bitch woman were here. I smell them. Where did they go?”
“Brof—“ the bartender began, a confused look on his face. He never finished his sentence. The stranger snapped his arm across the bar almost instantly, fingers closing around and crushing the bartender’s throat. The bartender gurgled quietly, eyes bulging in terror for a moment before his windpipe collapsed.
The stranger discarded him like a rag, turning to greet the stunned looks on the faces of the few other patrons in the bar. “Where is he?” He yelled, lurching to his feet. When no answer was forthcoming, his rage blossomed into something pure and red; Something which none of the hapless souls who had made the mistake of stopping by for a drink would ever live long enough to describe to anyone else.
Sometime later, the door of Fast and Loose swung open again, expelling the stranger back out into the night like vomit, creaking back closed for the final time. He stood for a long moment with his head tilted, like a wolf listening to the sounds of the darkness.
Hunting.
The front door of Fast and Loose swung closed with an unheard creak, the pulsing sounds of late-decade techno boucing off of the walls. The bartender looked up from his cigarette and watched a disheveled man shuffle over to the bar, frowning. Something was wrong with the way he walked, or stood. His posture was unnatural.
“What can I getcha?” asked the bartender, leaning against the far side of the bar.
Pale eyes looked out at him from under scraggly bangs. He felt himself judged in those moments, the repetitive thumping of the music softly accenting the long moments that passed. “I’m looking for someone,” the man replied.
“Aren’t we all?” shot back the bartender, losing interest rapidly. “Look buddy, you want a drink, or what?”
Again he fell under the scrutiny of those pale eyes, beginning to see in them someone he most definitely wanted to leave his place of business. When no answer was forthcoming, the bartender nervously inched his hand along a shelf under the bar, towards the sawed-off he kept there for just such a case. He was interrupted in his movements by a belated reply.
“Brofnakken. He and his bitch woman were here. I smell them. Where did they go?”
“Brof—“ the bartender began, a confused look on his face. He never finished his sentence. The stranger snapped his arm across the bar almost instantly, fingers closing around and crushing the bartender’s throat. The bartender gurgled quietly, eyes bulging in terror for a moment before his windpipe collapsed.
The stranger discarded him like a rag, turning to greet the stunned looks on the faces of the few other patrons in the bar. “Where is he?” He yelled, lurching to his feet. When no answer was forthcoming, his rage blossomed into something pure and red; Something which none of the hapless souls who had made the mistake of stopping by for a drink would ever live long enough to describe to anyone else.
Sometime later, the door of Fast and Loose swung open again, expelling the stranger back out into the night like vomit, creaking back closed for the final time. He stood for a long moment with his head tilted, like a wolf listening to the sounds of the darkness.
Hunting.
posted by Mark Krepela at
1:23 PM
