Part I - The Onset

[Thad]

It’s a city street that could be in any city – a couple of cars sitting quietly against the curb, some fluttering litter lazily drifting around, the sounds of heavy traffic that’s just a couple of blocks away. It’s quiet, this city street, for it’s early morning, and the sun is just high enough in the sky to make the scene glow and give everything that ‘fresh and new’ feel, like no matter what heinous things happened yesterday it’s forgotten and forgiven and you get to start this day with a clean slate.

From up the block Billy Lovemuscle turns a corner and comes into view. His gait isn’t so much a walk as it is an amble, as if he’s got somewhere to be but all the time in the world to get there. He seems to be scanning the signs above the doorways, looking for a particular establishment on this particular city street. A smile cuts through the perpetual scruff on his face as he finds his target: a dim tavern simply called “Joe’s Place”. Lovemuscle’s pace now picks up as he heads toward his destination.

The décor of the interior could easily be labeled ‘Cliché Dive’. To the left are plenty of tables and chairs packed tightly on the wooden floor with an almost-indiscernible pathway leading back to the barely-lit hallway where, presumably, the restrooms are located. A grimy juke box sits ignored in a corner – an old-school juke box, not one of those new internet music machines. A forgotten dart board hangs on the wall next to a rusty tin sign advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. To the right and up two stairs is the pool table, just where it should be in such a stereotypical scene. And just as predictable, three big, ugly men (their necks redder than red) are drinking beer and shooting a loud, sloppy game of pool. Directly ahead is the chipped and scarred bar itself, serviceable but nondescript. A short, weasely man stands behind the bar, pretending to run a rag across the surface but focusing his attention on Billy Lovemuscle. Lovemuscle glances around the interior once to size up the situation, and then heads to the bar.

“Neighbor, Ah’m lookin’ fer Joe. Ah believe he owns this place.”

The bartender stops his rag-pushing and laughs. “That fat ass’s been dead for two years!” He accentuates the statement by spitting on the floor. “God I hated that fat f*ck! I wish he was alive so I could watch him die again!” And another wad of saliva hits the floor, and the greasy man stares at Lovemuscle as if daring him to react negatively in some way. The bar gets quiet – the pool game is suspended as this new, interesting diversion unfolds…

Lovemuscle is still relaxed as he always seems to be. No hostility, no sudden movements, no anger or retaliation. He just stares back at the bartender through his ever-present sunglasses. “Wellsir, that’s a damn shame, ‘cause he was a friend o’ mine.” No menace or hint of threat, just an even-toned declaration of fact. “He used ta let me use this place once in a while when Ah needed ta record some thoughts.” Lovemuscle isn’t showing any emotion, but internally he’s laughing at the bartender’s utter and complete stupefaction – the man has no idea what Lovemuscle’s talking about. “If’n yer servin’ up drink this morning, Ah sure could use a belt o’ whiskey… Ah don’t reckon ya got any Maker’s Mark back there, do ya?” Billy pulls out a large handful of green bills from his pocket and smiles as he sees greed and lust transform the bartender’s face. The man behind the bar gives his head a quick shake as he’s reaching down. He puts a bottle of Wild Turkey on the bar and sets a rocks glass next to it, his focus never once leaving the bankroll in Billy’s hand. Lovemuscle knows he’s hooked. “Listen, neighbor, Ah’ll give you one o’ these Ben Franklin’s if’n you’n them fellers at the pool table kin give me a couple o’ moments o’ peace an’ quiet whilst Ah take care somethin’. Deal?” Eyes still fixed on the green, the bartender smiles and nods.

Deciding that it’s time to get down to business, Lovemuscle takes his bottle and glass and looks around for the exact right table. Choosing one as far away from the newly resumed game of pool, he walks over and sits down. He removes a small digital recorder from an inside pocket of his denim jacket and sets it on the table in front of him, positioning it so it’s pointing directly at him, with the dusty dart board and ad for atrocious beer providing a backdrop. Faced this way, it just so happens that Lovemuscle can keep an eye on the actions of the pool-players and the bartender, who manages to pick this exact moment to head over to his burly patrons for a heads-down hush-hush conference. Billy pours a half glass of whiskey and silently observes the scene from behind his sunglasses. The bartender gives his head a not-so-subtle jerk in his direction, and Lovemuscle frowns. Best to get this over with, the sooner the better, he thinks. He takes a long sip of the bitter amber liquid, turns the recorder on, and looks directly into the lens.

 

[Thad]

Part III - The Aftermath

Billy Lovemuscle slumps forward as a pool cue stick shatters against the back of his head. As he leans forward, he grabs the neck of the bottle of Wild Turkey from the table and spins around suddenly. The bottle explodes across the forehead of a large ugly man, probably creating a lasting scar that will make this unfortunate cro-magnum even uglier. In a continuation of his movement, Lovemuscle snatches up the digital recorder from the table’s surface and kicks the table forward, launching it at the two other hulking figures rushing forward. The men get tripped up and fall to the floor in a humorous heap, but Billy’s got no time to appreciate it – a small, greasy man is trying to sneak up on him, armed with another pool stick. With timing honed from countless hours of bar-room brawling, Lovemuscle ducks as the stick whistles harmlessly through the spot he’d just occupied. One leg lashes out and a heavy boot-heel connects harshly with a bony knee with a too-loud CRACK, and the knee suddenly bends at one of those stomach-turning angles. A howl of surprise and pain fills the tavern as the little man drops his pool stick as he drops to the floor clutching his ruined knee. The first assaulter picks himself up, blood and whiskey dripping down his face. The other two behemoths have managed to fend of the deadly attack of the table and now lock on to Lovemuscle with rage and malice gleaming wickedly in their eyes. Billy sizes things up and bursts into action.

He runs for the bar before the three standing attackers can react. In stride, Lovemuscle puts one foot on a chair, the next one on a table, and then launches himself into the air and over the bar. Still too quick for the three large men, Billy stands up and starts throwing objects with amazing accuracy. Old Whiskey Face gets catches a large, full bottle of vodka with his nose, which breaks badly and flows freely. He shrieks like an old woman and falls to his knees, cradling his shattered smeller with his thick fingers. Redneck Number 2 tries to protect his face from the hail of full beer bottles and bar glasses hurtling his way. The third man (who proves to be the brains of this operation) takes refuge behind the table that had knocked him down, and is now using the table as a shield as he slowly creeps toward the bar. An errant air-born blender connects squarely with the second man’s forehead. As the blood pours out of the newly-formed gash, the man’s eyes roll up into his head and he collapses to the floor like a string less marionette. Billy looks for the last man and sees a table inching its way forward. He smiles and drops down. But for the sounds of pain and misery coming from the downed attackers, the bar is quiet.

Finally reaching the wooden bar itself, the last man standing slowly peers over the table’s surface, but his intended target is not there. Puzzled, he gives up the protection of his table-shield and leans over the bar. His head is rocked backwards suddenly as Billy Lovemuscle explodes upward and catches that fat chin with a solid uppercut. The man literally flies through the air and lands on the table he had just abandoned. A moment of silence ensues, and then the poor, over-used table gives way under the unconscious man. Lovemuscle looks around to make sure everybody’s out, and gives his head a little nod of satisfaction. He starts to exit from behind the bar when something catches his eye – a full, unopened bottle of Maker’s Mark. “You lyin’ bastard…” Lovemuscle takes the bottle but leaves a hundred dollar bill on the bar. Looking around the chaotic scene one last time, Billy Lovemuscle smiles and walks out into the mid-day sunshine.