A Bar Tale

A Bar Tale

On most nights, Sully’s Pub was alive, a crowded haven. On those nights, customers poured in like swarms of ants after a long day at work, lining up on the bar throwing down cash for all or any hard liquor the Pub had to offer. It was always loud and lively as well, with people talking up storms of various topics. Accompanied by the boisterous and thunderous voices, music often blasted in the background, mixed in with wild laughter.

On most nights, Sully’s Pub was the bar everyone wanted to be at.

But tonight was a different story. Tonight was actually…quiet.

Which was honestly the way Sully enjoyed it. Sure, some customers came by here and there to drink away the unwanted memories brought upon by the day, but tonight only a few straglers came in and occupied the Pub as the music from a ancient rusted jukebox played furtively in the background. By the booths, a small colony of cockroaches crawled around several of the tables and seats, substituting themselves in the spaces where the many patrons sat down to drink away.

Yes, Sully thought to himself. Tonight was just how he wanted it.

As he served a cold bottle of bourbon to a patron, the bar door opened, and Sully could not help but look up and see who had decided to walk inside. The curiosity on his face, however, quickly vanished to take form a look of both dissatisfaction and disgust.

The man who walked in was scrawny, somewhere between his late thirties to early forties. His clothes were old and ragged, and he wreaked of various stenches, mainly alcohol and rat-urine, almost as if he had not taken a bath for who knew how long exactly (actually, it was thirty-two hours prior. His face was scruffy, unkempt, and dirty, a large wart sitting on his nose; his mouth missing an incredible amount of teeth, the ones that remained were mere yellow cavity-rich shadows of their former selves. His eyes were also yellow and bulging, as if he had not slept for days (which was actually the case).

Sully sighed in disgust: it was Pauly.

Since it was pouring rain outside, Pauly had been running, and as a result, was soaked and panting breathlessly (as if he had any oxygen within him to begin with). The rain had also caused his odor to increase, and now he smelt like a wet dog that had been drinking mass amounts of alcohol and living in rat-urine. As the door behind him closed, Pauly leaned up against the wall to catch his breath. Slowly, he walked over to the counter and took a seat, leaving small puddles on the Pub floor as he walked.

“Bourbon”, he croaked, his voice sounding as if he had both a frog and an ashtray lodged into his throat.

“Christ, Pauly”, said Sully. “You sure you’d rather have water instead? And besides, you still owe me seventy-nine bucks. When the hell are you going to pay me back, you dirty, trash-smelling filth”?

“Can it, Sully,” Paul barked hoarsely, “water don’t have anything next to bourbon magic. And besides, I’m really gonna need it after where I’ve been”.

Reluctantly, Sully leaned down and picked up a shot glass. He then took a bottle behind him and set both items on the counter. Pauly then proceeded to pour a shot, and then hastily drank it, and in mere moments poured himself another.

As he watched, Sully could not help but notice the state Pauly was in. Sure, for an alcoholic hobo, Pauly usually looked like crap, but behavior-wise he was always talking up a storm, his words live with energy. Tonight, however, was a different story. On this night, Pauly was surprisingly quiet. And the look on his face suggested he had just seen a ghost.

“You know, Pauly,” said Sully, “I’ve seen you shit-faced more times than I can recite my ABCs. But right now…right now, you look like you’ve been through some serious hell or some shit”.

Pausing from his drinking, Pauly slowly looked up into Sully’s eyes. And Sully could see it in the hobo’s yellow eyes: absolute fear. Of course, it could have just been the alcohol. After all, it was Pauly he was talking too.

“Sul,” the hobo replied, “that’s exactly where I was. And it wasn’t pretty, man”.

Sully chuckled. “Pauly, I know you’re a massive drunkard and shit twenty-four-seven. Are you sure it’s you and not the booze trippin’ and playin’ mind games with you”?

Almost immediately after the words left Sully’s mouth, Pauly’s expression went from ghostly fear to absolute anger.

“Yeah, alright, I’m a freakin’ drunkard, I’ll admit that friggin’ much,” Pauly scoffed. “But right now, I am nowhere near pullin’ your friggin’ leg, Sully! I swear on my goddamn ma’s grave! Just let me explain the whole story to your friggin’ face”!

Pauly panted heavily to catch his breath, followed by several harsh coughs that could pass for a wood-chipper machine chipping wood. After exactly thirty seconds passed with silence, Sully spoke.

“Alright, Pauly,” he replied. “Let’s hear what ‘hellish’ mess you got yourself into. Even if I’m going to regret listening to your drunken ass”. Sully then leaned in closer on the counter to listen.

After taking a deep breath that seemed to last for hours, Pauly exhaled. And then, he spoke of his story…….

---------------------------------90 Minutes Ago----------------------------------

Okay, so I was roamin’ around the East Side, mindin’ my own freakin’ business, doing my thing. What my thing was is none of yo’ goddamn business, but yous get the idea. Anyways, I’m walkin’, and that’s when Mother Freakin’ Nature decides to take her bathroom break. On me, my stinky hobo ass.

Well, as my luck would have it, the Franklin Saloon on 15^th was just right aroun’ the corner, so I’m runnin like a friggin’ chicken, makin’ my way over. Soon as I get there, I’m already pantin’ like Bobby’s big-ass bitch that never stops barkin’ her ass off. Whatever.

So I walk in, an’ it’s business as usual. Place is packed, people are drinkin’ their asses off, music’s blastin’, and there’s pool games goin’ on, the whole place smellin’ like tobacco and the music’s blastin’ its ass off. Typical night at Franklin’s.

Anyways, I walk over to the counter, an’ there’s Frankie (you know, that big hunkie that runs the joint),  an’ he’s doin’ his thing as usual. Then he takes one look over in my direction, and his big ol’ pug-face lights up.

“Yo, Pauly!” he says to me. “You looked soaked to death, and ya smell like ass and wet-dog too! What happen, some crazy bitches decide to leak on you”? Same ol’ Frankie. Always had the worst mouth of any moron in town I knew besides me.

“Y’know, it’s funny you say that,” I says to that fat bastard. “You kiss yo’ ol’ gal with that mouth too? Now hurry up and gimme a bourbon bottle an’ all, willya! An’ hurry that shit up, I’m friggin’ thirsty as hell here!”

Took a few moments for that heavy ass of Frankie’s to hand me a bottle, tellin’ me that I still owed his ass eighty-two. After I grab that bottle from his pudgy hand, I tell his pug-ass face to shoo. And down that brown elixir goes, man, that stuff tastin’ like hard Heaven. It’s gone within 10 seconds, after which Frankie hands me another bottle, and I drink that one dry too.

Well, soon as I puts down that second bottle, door opens and me, bein’ a curious bugger and all, can’t help but look and see whos it is, thinkin’ it might be somebody out ta fry my ass. Luckily, it wasn’t but guy…well, never seen him before.

Guy was one of them “tall, dark, handsome” types. No seriously, he was. Looked his mid-twenties to mid-thirties, this pretty boy. He had that black hair that was somewhat spiked, and a matchin’ goatee that sits halfway down his lower lip and stops right at his chin’s bottom. And his eyes, man; they were like blackish or somethin’. An’ his face…damn, I swear this guy could pass for a freakin’ angel. But since when do angels wear black from head-to-toe? He had on like this pitch-black shirt that matched some really nice khakis he had on. Shoes were black too, shiny like a girl’s fanny really. An’ then he’s got on this black trench coat that looked liked somethin’ from a Dracula flick. I tell ya, man, this guy was studly-lookin’.

So, Good-Lookin’ walks in an’ he’s mindin’ his own’ business while everyone else was doin’ their own shtick. And the way this kid moved through the crowd: almost as if there was no one in his way. Smooth-walker I says. An’ then he sits down at the counta, few seats over to my right, puts his arms on the counta real slick too, an’ he just sits there lookin’ at the mirror.

Frankie walks over to the guy, right? Asks him right away what he’d like. Good-Lookin’ looks right up into his face for a moment, and then this real nice smile just glides across his face. And then he talks with this real soft-soundin’ voice. Had a West-Coast and gentleman-soundin’ blend in his voice. Even that voice sounded like an angel’s.

“Bloody Mary,” is all he says.

As he says this, I look at pug-ass Frankie, and he’s like in awe with this kid’s angelic voice. Typical Frankie. All it took was his eyes blinkin’ to snap him out and go make that drink. Minute later, Frankie sets it down on the counta, and Angel-Face slowly picks it up and takes a sip.

At this point, I’m like curious and shit about this kid. I mean, everybody here ‘cept him were like bikers and lowlies like me, makin’ this guy the only piece of the puzzle standin’ out. Like friggin’ Waldo, man. I shoulda just minded my own frickin’ business, but you know me, the curious little shit I am, not to mention I was really inta this guy (in a non-weird way, if you catch my drift). So, I picks my ass up and puts it down on the seat right next to Pretty-Boy’s left.

Angel-Face doesn’t acknowledge my hobo ass as I sit down, proceedin’ to stare him like I was some frickin’ garden gnome annoying the hell out o’ him. What can I say? The guy was interestin’.

For like two minutes not a word. And then his angel-voice breaks silence.

“You know,” he says to me, “it’s not polite to stare. Especially at another man. Not only is it weird and creepy, but it also sends mixed signals”. Holy shit, the charisma in his voice. Took me a moment to catch myself, too, because this guy is so freakin’ smooth with words.

“Sorry, man,” I says to him, chucklin’ to myself like a nervous pipsqueak. I says to him, “I don’t mean it like that. It’s just…it’s just that normally nice-lookin’ fellows like you walkin’ into places like this. An’ I never sees yo face around these parts. You ain’t from around here, aren’t you”?

Good-Lookin’ chuckles. “What gave it away?” he asks along with that warm natural smile. He pauses, and continues: “the voice, right? I get that quite often”.

As he says that, I’m thinkin’ to myself: how the livin’ shit did he know I was goin’ to say that about his voice?

“Hehe, how…how do you figure I’d ask about the voice?” I ask real nervously.

“Like I said: I get that question quite often. Also, a lucky guess. And your eyes asked for you”.

Wow, I’m thinkin’. This guy really knows some shit.

“So uh, what brings you into this dump of a watering hole?” I asks. “Wouldn’t you rather be at one of them clubs or somethin’? You look like you’re more dressed for those places”.

“Well”, Angel-Face says with that charismatic angelic-tone, “I normally don’t drink at all. Bad for the soul, they say. But sometimes, you have the urge…need…to  sin the soul once in a while. So, here I am, sitting here, in this ‘dump of a watering hole’, as you so elegantly put it, damaging my health. And yet, I do not regret it one bit.

“As for why I am here”, Angel-Face continues, “nightclubs are nothing more than pointless cesspools with little to no personality whatsoever. Every club is the same: bright lights and loud boisterous sounds that passes for music. Any event that happens in those places are often forgotten or unwanted. It’s where young, blind and emotionless people dressed in their ‘best attire’ go to ‘have a good time’ and hope to ‘score some tail’. In reality, all they are doing is merely disguising their pitiful lives they are forced to live out on a daily basis. Clubbing is merely an excuse to shut off all emotion and let their inner wild-selves run rampant to ‘conquer’ the night.

“A bar, saloon, or pub, on the other hand, has a personality. It is a place where true people can come together and truly converse with each other. And unlike the clubs where nothing is remembered, watering holes like this one always leaves behind a fond memory, no matter how sad or how it is. That, my dirty, scrounging, friend, is why I choose to drink here”.

            Normally, I could never pay attention to whatever the frick anyone tells me. Y’know, because booze will do that to you. But somethin’ about this guy, man: somethin’ about that angelic-charismatic voice just….made me wanna listen to him, y’know?

            The pretty-boy then took another sip of his drink, slowly just like his last sip.

            “Well,” I says to him. “Can’t agree more about drinks, man. Best medicine ever”.

            “Opinions vary, but it’s your opinon,” Angel-Face replied, proceedin’ to take another sip. He sets it down, doesn’t talk for a few moments. And then out of the blue, he asks:

            “So…do you mind if I ask you for your name”?

            I was surprised, man. After all, guy was a complete stranger. But again, somethin’ about him just drew me to him, y’know? After all, he seemed like a nice guy.

            “Name’s Pauly,” I replies to him. “Howsabout you, tall-dark-and-handsome? You got a name”?

            The pretty boy laughed. “Let’s just say that my name….is a name you do not want to either forget or even know”.

            And right as he finishes talkin’, the door slams open. Actually, more liked kicked the hell in. An’ then everything stopped, music and conversations an’ all. Everyone in there stopped to see who had just decided to bust into Franklin’s.

            There were three of ‘em. They all wore the same shit: suits, ties an’ all that fancy stuff. They had on these dark shades so tinted you couldn’t see their eyes. They scanned the club, lookin’ around for a lil’ bit. An’ then they looked towards me. Least I thought they did as they slowly walked over in my direction. Next thing I know, they’re hoverin’ above me an’ Pretty-Boy, like we’re freakin’ ants. And then, one of them suits opened his mouth.

            “We’ve been looking for you,” the suit says. Only he wasn’t talkin’ to me.

            He was talkin’, to Angel-Face.

            Angel-Face turns around, slowly but smoothly. He looks up at ‘em, completely unafraid of them. Me, here I am, practically shitting in my freakin’ pants. But Angel-Face, man. He just looks right at ‘em, like they ain’t shit. And then that smile appears.

            “You know,” he says to the suits, “it took you long enough to catch up. I sensed all three of you following me for six hours now. It was only a matter of time before the three of you came in. I’ve been sitting here with my new friend here patiently waiting for your fine presence. And now here you are, hoping to finally destroy the almighty and powerful, not to mention devilishly handsome, Destroyer”.

            Angel-Face gets up from the stool, an’ all three of them suits take a step back. Meanwhile, everyone else in the bar is just stuck in place, watchin’ the whole show unfold, y’know? Everyone knew somethin’ was bound to go down.

            All of a sudden, we all hear this loud “chick-chack” go off behind us. Everyone, me, the suits, Pretty-Boy, all the patrons: EVERYONE looks to see where the noise came from. ‘Course, I knew exactly what the frick that noise was: the sound of a shotgun being cocked. And Frankie was the one brandishing it, pointing it right at the suits and Angel-Face.

            “Alright, listen, you stupid bastards!” Frankie yells out to Angel-Face and the suits. “I don’t know what kind of stupid shit you got between each other! An’ as much as I like a good fight here an’ there, that kin’ of shit ain’t allowed in MY saloon! Now get the hell out before I unload a whole round at yo’ frickin’ asses”!

            There was this long pause. And then Angel-Face breaks the silence by laughin’. Laughin’, I tell you. I mean, this guy is facin’ like three other dudes, and Frankie’s got a freakin’ barrel pointed at ‘in, an’ here is laughin’ his frickin’ ass off, like it’s all a freakin’ game to this kid. Guy had balls, man. Even I would be shittin’ in my pants.

            An’ then he looks right at Frankie. The moment he looks right at Frankie, Angel-Face’s eyes had changed. They went from normal-lookin’ to…to somethin’ not human man. They were all white an’ glowin’, like somethin’ I seen in one of those horror flicks. In that frickin’ moment, Angel-Face went from having angel eyes…to the eyes of frickin’ Satan, man. An’ now Frankie was the one really shittin’ in his pants because that barrel was now shakin’ like a mofo, like he couldn’t even hold it right. An’ the look on his face, man: Frankie looked like he was about ready to get shot or somethin’.

            Angel-Face sighs. “Well,” he says right to Frankie. “I really did not want to do this in front of all these people and my friends here. But I’m afraid that you’ve forced my hand. No hard feelings, huh?”

            He then raised his arm at Frankie, an’ what happened next I will never, ever, forget for as long as my drunken ass lives on this Earth. The moment he raised his hand, some sort of fiery glowin’ shit shoots from his hand. The whole place is silent. So quiet, you could hear the damn cockroaches. I look over at Frankie, an’ I literally wanted to puke my brains out. Because now there was this giant hole in Frankie’s chest, like somethin’ out of a movie, where you could see right through the hole out the other end. Frankie slowly looks down at it, looks up at Angel-Face, and then his pug-ass-face falls flat on the floor, dead like a goddamn doorknob.

            The Pretty-Boy slowly looks back at the suits, who are at this point look like they’re ready to tussle and shit. Pretty-Boy still has on that smile, like nothin’ happened. An’ the look on his face, man. He looked like he was enjoying the whole thing, like it was one huge party to him.

            Then he says to the suits: “Well, I don’t have all night. Shall we get this over with?’

            An’ right there an’ then, all frickin’ hell breaks loose.

            O’ course, I don’t watch the whole shit, because I had leapt over the counta right after he spoke. I know it all went to shit ‘cause next thing I know, I’m hearin’ screams of people dyin’, people in agony and pain and shit. I hear fireworks go off, shit bein’ smashed. Strange colorful lights bein’ blasted everywhere. Glass an’ stuff bein’ broken.

An’ while all this was happenin’, I could hear his frickin’ laughter. It was the one thing I kept hearin’ throughout the whole shit. An’ here I am, behin’ the counta, cradling myself and bawlin’ like a freakin’ baby and cryin’ out to God to help my ass.

After what seemed like frickin’ eternity, I stopped hearing everythin’. Even the laughter. An’ I was still curled up in a ball, shakin’ and breathin’ for my life. An’ then I heard his voice.

“Well, Pauly. Everyone’s gone, and the show’s over. I think it’s safe for you to come out now”.

I will never forget what the shit I saw when I got back up and looked behind the counta. The whole saloon, all broken and beaten and shit. Chairs and tables were broken into million pieces litterin’ the whole floor alon’ with billions of shattered glass pieces. An’ the whole place smelled like burnt charcoal. An’ ash. Tons an’ tons of freakin’ ash all over the goddamn place. I knew I heard people, an’ yet not a single soul was in that buildin’.

“What’s the matter, Pauly?” Angel-Face asks me, calm as a freakin’ whistle, an’ actin’ like nothin’ happened at all, his eyes back to normal-lookin’. “You look like you’ve seen a massacre. Which is technically what happened”.

“W-w-w-w-what, what the sh-sh-sh-shit?” I says, terrified as hell. “Where—where---where is everyone?”

“Oh, I killed them. Couldn’t have any witnesses. No one is really supposed to know of the Numen’s existence. Even my suited friends knew that. Shame I had to kill three of my own kind as well.”

An’ as he says this, he’s takin’ another sip of his Bloody Mary, again, calm like a mofo. He walks over towards me, an’ before I knows it, he’s hoverin’ over me, an’ I am scared even more shitless.

“Normally, I don’t leave one to run off and tell”, he says. “But for some strange reason, I’ve come to like you within this past hour or so. Very rarely do I meet people so simple and friendly as you. So, I’ll tell you what: since you already look like someone who drinks chronically, I’ll let you go. It won’t matter how many times you tell this story, no one will ever believe you. You are a drunkard after all, yes? I knew the moment I read your mind of how much of a drinker you are. Well, I must be off then. Have to keep looking for him, after all.”

Angel-Face then takes one final sip of his Bloody Mary, set it down on the counta, and walks over to the busted door. It’s still rainin’ outside, but now there’s thunder and lightnin’ goin’ on.

He turns to look at me one last time and says: “My name is Lucifer by the way. And it was a pleasure to meet you, Pauly. Thank you for drink-talk.” An’ then he walks out into the storm.

 _____________________________________________________________________

“I waited for like ten minutes, an’ then I high-tailed my ass outta there,” Pauly concluded. “An’ then I made my way over here, needin’ somethin’ to wash away what freakin’ nightmare I just witnessed”. He then took another massive gulp from the bottle.

Sully sighed, having listened to Pauly rant on with his story for exactly thirty minutes. After hearing what Pauly had to say, mixed thoughts began to form in Sully’s mind. Was it truly possible that Pauly’s story was indeed true? And if so, was there really such a man capable of such horrendous acts?

Sully quickly shook his head to clear his thoughts. This was Pauly he had been listening too. And Pauly was, after all, a massive drunkard. And often delusional.

“Alright, Pauly,” Sully said. “I really do appreciate the story. However, I also really think you’re done for the night”. He then took the now half-empty bottle of bourbon out of Pauly’s hands, and placed it behind him next to the sink. “Go home, Pauly,” he continued. “You look like you need sleep more than a drink”.

“Whatever, Sully,” Pauly said as he got up from the stool He slowly made his way to the door. As he opened it, Pauly paused and looked at Sully. “I figure you wouldn’t believe me. But you are at least a little curious, right”?

“Sure, Pauly. Sure I am. Now go get some sleep, buddy”.

And with that, Pauly scurried out into the raining night.

What a freakin’ story, Sully said to himself. He then proceeded to clean the bar counter, his mind still trying to make sense of the story Pauly had just described.

As he turned his to the counter to rinse some glasses, Sully could hear the door open once more, followed by several footsteps. The footsteps were then followed by the screech of a barstool.

Sully turned around to greet the patron that had taken a seat. “Well, what will it be, sir?” he asked.

“A Bloody Mary, Good Sir,” said the patron, his voice carrying a charismatic angelic-tone in his speech…

END