Bar Fights And Repercussions
“the fuck’s going on?” I asked the bartender as I climbed
on my barstool; the only one left unoccupied in the crowded
bar by the port.
“some military ship docked today; Americans,” she replied, while
running around filling up mugs of green beer.
“fuck,” I spat under my breath. to her credit, she ignored several
jumping thirsty guys to get me my triple Four Roses and large draft beer.
after a swig that emptied half the lowball, and after lighting a cigarette,
I looked over my shoulder at the barroom. all the small tables were covered
with empty mugs and bottles of beer, and swaying, slurring young men
were clinking glasses and making grandiose proclamations about
their manhood and their conquests. ten women, all in barely-there outfits,
entertained the tables, accepting free drinks and grabbing crotches, telling
big lies about what they were feeling up. Jeanette was one of them; surrounded
by three bulky young men; young enough
to look like they should be sent back to junior high.
I chugged my remaining drink, and the buxom bartender, whose name I could
never fucking remember, poured more Four Roses over the ice cubes that
hadn’t had time to melt.
“it’s her job,” she reminded me, I guess because she saw some
red coloring my cheeks.
“I know,” I grumbled and kept my gaze focused on my drink.
“you ain’t no sailor, are ya?” the young man next to me said; also with a buzz cut, and
clean-shaven, too fucking young to be out in the world without parental
supervision. I was long-haired, with a full beard, in a dirty t-shirt and a worn-out
leather jacket.
“what gave it away?” I asked.
“I thought this was a bar only for sailors.”
“it is. I’m just the local barfly with special privileges.”
“what makes you so special?” he pursued. he was looking for a fight.
I lit a cigarette, and blew a plume of blue smoke on his face.
my regular haunt, where I could get a backup of fifteen bloodthirsty bikers
was several blocks away; and I didn’t have any phone numbers.
I didn’t care. Jeanette was getting harassed by three morons, while another
moron was trying to pick up a fight.
“look, kid,” I said. “you want to fight, go pick on one of your drunk friends. I’m
not getting entangled in your bullshit.”
“we’re out here protecting your godless country,” he said. “I won’t fight my brothers.”
“go fight Commies, then, if you can find them. the Soviet Union collapsed
long before your parents even thought about having a kid.”
“you’re a fucking Commie,” he accused me.
“quit yelling, or you’re out,” the bartender threatened him; I raised my glass at her.
“fuck you,” he told her. “the only reason you’re serving drinks is because you’re
way too ugly to be a whore.”
without thinking, I put my hand on the back of his head and used his face to smash his beer mug.
he started wailing like a little kid that got stung by a bee,
holding on to his face as blood started painting his fingers crimson.
I barely managed to finish my drink before several of his buddies
dragged me off my barstool and started stomping me.
I was drunk enough to take the pain, and high enough not to
remember much of how more than a dozen combat boots
made sure not an inch of my body and head remained intact.
I lay on the floor, a bloody, broken mess, when the bartender
called for backup, a couple of bouncers, to remove
all the assholes. they helped me up, I got a free Four Roses,
and Jeanette abandoned her suitors to come to me.
“are you okay?” she asked, her hazel eyes emanating worry, and perhaps
even affection.
“I’ve survived worse,” I mumbled. even touching the brim of my lowball with
my swollen lips was painful. at least, a good gulp helped numb the pain.
“come on, I’m taking you to my place. you need to rest.”
I didn’t resist when she put her arm around my waist and led me out
of the bar, under the murderous glares of the rest of the sailors.
“why did you have to get into a fight?”
“the little fucker insulted the bartender,” I explained.
“you just cost me a lot of money,” she said.
“you know I can’t pay for that.”
“and you know I don’t care.”
she was a Florence Nightingale in a whore costume, and that
was why I really liked her.
we reached her apartment—she had to drag my carcass up the
staircases—and she tossed me onto the couch.
“thanks,” I said when she gave me a brimful lowball of cheap bourbon.
“drink up, this is gonna hurt,” she said and without another warning
started rubbing an alcohol-soaked rag on my bloody face.
I flinched, winced, and drank, trying to hold back the tears.
“it was a very brave, and stupid, thing to do,” she said, and kissed my
swollen lips.
“emphasis on stupid, huh?”
“you think she hasn’t heard worse?”
“probably from better,” I chuckled dryly.
“exactly.”
she kissed my lips again, and for a few moments we just
stared into each other’s eyes. she was a prostitute; I was a drunkard.
we should have been a match made in heaven.
it was never meant to be.
however, for that one night, the night she decided to take care of me
instead of taking home paying customers, we truly became one—thankfully,
none of the fuckers that beat the shit out of me attacked my dick and balls.
after I finished my drink, in two gulps, she took me to
her bed; there, she showed me that chivalry is still rewarded.
I had cracked ribs, two strained arms, and potentially a concussion.
if I had died while sleeping on her squeaking bed, after coming inside her,
I’d have died a happy man. I didn’t die. death doesn’t want me.
the devil has ensured I live to be a hundred just to avoid me.
I woke up, hungover and beaten up. she made me
coffee, then I had to go home to get drunk.
Horror Sleaze Trash 