late 2000 · Short story — a bar, a proprietor, and a customer.
The smoke filled the bar like an evil spirit spawned from the throats of drunken men and women. There wasn’t a seat left untaken at the bar, and most tables were occupied. But for all the patronage the club received, there was only the bartender—a man named Gordy Hammersmith—and three waitresses to manage the crowd. There he stood, behind the bar. His bowtie was fastened neatly at the base of his throat, complimenting his retro-style 1930s fashioned suit. He watched the show before him with glittering eyes. It was all about the money: all the shit he had to deal with, the drunks, the stiffs, the assholes… …but in the end it was all worth it. Gordy took in a damned good profit every week, and especially Friday nights.
It was happy hour, and the smell of beer, smoke, vomit, sweat, and sex permeated the thick still air. He could still see faint traces of red in some of his ladies’ cheeks. He grinned. Yep, in a few years he would be set. He’d be off to his hometown in Wisconsin where he’d take his nest egg and settle down with some pretty girl, of whom he was sure would be half his age or younger, and why not, he mused. With every dollar earned he took one more step in getting what he wanted, and he wasn’t picky. Oh no. A nice house, with a Jacuzzi in the main bathroom, one out back next to the heated pool, and some fresh young skin to share his bed was all he wanted.
The young man stood at the entrance to Gordy’s. Bright neon lights promised great beer, gambling tables, and the best time any young man with money could have. And he had money, oh yeah he did. Just the other night he’d finished a project at the Graysteele place. After staking the fucking place for two months it was about time it had paid off. He and his buddies Joey and Chris split the money three ways, but of course he, Jackson Hyatt, received the biggest cut; after all, it was his plan. But his grand designs were yet to be executed. It was here at Gordy’s that he’d win his real jackpot. He grinned ferally as he paid the cover charge and entered the club. As Jackson approached the bar he caught the smells of the place and chuckled. Yes, this was the smell of success—the smell of opportunity begging to be exploited. He couldn’t wait until he was part of it.
Gordy watched the young man enter his club. He could tell by the man’s confident look and greedy eyes that he intended to spend money, and a lot of it. So as he walked over to Jackson, he fronted his seediest smile and affably slapped him on the back. “What do you think of my club?” Jackson blinked at the question, and after recognizing Gordy as the owner, grinned hugely. “Hey, it’s a really nice place. I expect I’m going to really enjoy myself.” Gordy nodded in genuine approval and offered Jackson a drink: “Say, you look dry. How about a drink on me to start your night? What would you like?” “Sounds like a plan, Mr. H. A screwdriver would be fine, and I’d appreciate a shot of Cuervo to chase it.” Gordy’s eyebrows rose in good humor and produced the beverages.
Three shots, five beers, and two lines later, Jackson was ready to do what he’d come for. He pulled out his Uzi and tore everyone to bloody, sticky, crimson shreds. The display was psychedelic, he mused. Red and blue, or was it black—it was hard to tell in the myriad muted lights of the club—splattered the walls. Pieces of bone and skull sometimes slid down the wall like gristle off a roasted pig’s back, and it was all so quiet—just the sound of a woman still finishing her death throes. Tsk, tsk, tsk. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shook his head in mock disappointment as he perused the club for Gordy’s private office…
Composed 2000 · part of the Short Stories collection · authorship documented on the Provenance page.