A Terrible Fate

A Terrible Fate

It was a fairly small place; attracting, from what I could tell, mostly local patronage from the south side of the city. It certainly looked appealing from the outside; with thick, stained glass windows, an arching mansard roof, and an old, though well-kept sign hanging from the canopy above the front door; swinging creakily in the wind and the rain.

The inside, on the contrary, was dimly lit, dank, and permeated by a stench reminiscent of molded bread and stale beer. Frequent lightning strikes lit up the images on the stained glass: morbid works of oblivion; while the crash of thunder did nothing more than briefly wake both the patrons and the bartender from their drunken half-slumber.

It certainly wasn’t the most alluring corner of the city. It wasn’t colorful; most of the interior was painted brown with shades of dark, pale green. Tattered barstools, completely void of stability, unevenly lined the circular bar encompassing the majority of the interior of the building. Though patronage was sparse, there were a few shady looking individuals half-sitting, half-falling off their stools; one hand on their mug and the other swaying around as if for balance.

I sipped my glass of wine with an air of excited caution as I waited; I hadn’t seen him yet. She told me he’d be here, though she hadn’t said precisely when. The inevitable finality of the meeting I was to have with him was the only reason I was; the only reason I would ever, willingly venture over to this side of the city; much less this depressing, vulgar establishment. If he didn’t show up soon, I was going to have a word with her.

Lightning struck once more, illuminating a painting: a grotesque scene of a man kneeling, his own decapitated head in his hands, raising it up to a nobler man wielding the sword with which he’d presumably just performed the decapitation. What a dunce. It exemplified one of the many problems with the mind of the peasant. Even in death, he will still kneel. Even in death, he will present to you his own head. He knows no other way. What an embarrassment.

The lantern hanging from the wall near my corner of the establishment began flickering distressedly. It was exemplary of the many problems with the place, and of the place itself: nothing functioned at any sort of rate that could be considered even halfway adequate. The bartender was a lazy drunk, the entire place was under kept; even the lights refused to work.

Through the flickering lights I saw run past, on the wall near my table, a cockroach. How fitting it was. I followed its path across the hall until its trail directed my line of sight over to the other side of the room, on the far end of the long, wraparound bar, where two locals seemed to be on the verge of coming to blows with one another.

“I’ll kill yeh’! I don’t give an ounce of piss whether or not you’ve got something to say!” the first exclaimed.

Such well-spoken individuals.

“Do it, ya’ old crusty cunt!” replied the other.

The first, without even blinking, grabbed the handle of his thick pint glass and raised it up as if to use it like a brass knuckle. The glass, which had been almost completely full, spilled all of its beer onto the bar and the floor. The man, clearly without any interest in thinking twice about what he was doing, punched his drinking companion in the face with the pint glass with enough force to shatter both glass and face. Blood and glass fell from the recipient’s face and mixed with the spilt beer, and he, now sporting an extremely broken nose, fell instantly unconscious to the ground; blood pooling where he lay.

“’Aye! Barkeep! I’ll need another… This one… spilt.”

The attacking man, eyes only half-open and completely glazed, then proceeded to slide the remainder of his broken glass across the bar toward the barkeeper.

Amazingly, the barkeep very casually threw the old glass away, grabbed a new one, filled it, scraped the foam, and slid it back over to the man.

“You’ve really gotta’ stop fuckin’ up ma’ patrons, eh? I need the goddamn money.”

“Ehhhhhhh I know, I know. But this one pissed me off. Said something that… uh… well, he said somethin’. I’m pretty sure of that.”

This man, though someone I certainly wouldn’t have minded fileting, unfortunately wasn’t who I was looking for. I continued to sip my red wine and keep my eyes open.

The formerly aggressive patron rather quickly became docile. As the evening progressed, he began slouching more and more drowsily in his seat, until eventually he laid down his head on the bar and began snoozing and snoring. The sound of this filled the entire barroom; abrogating even the heavy rain which had until that point been the dominant source of auditory ambience.

The bartender, with a look of disgust, emptied the sleeping man’s half-drunk glass and began cleaning up the mess he’d made. The beneficiary of the pint-glass-punch, though mostly unconscious, luckily seemed to be still yet among the living. Cleaning up around his passed-out form as well as he could, the bartender turned and looked over to where I was seated:

“Eh! You need anything else?” You gotta’ order somethin’ if you wanna’ sit in here. I don’t give a shit how heavy that rains comin’ down out there. No loiterin’.”

Why anyone would voluntarily loiter in a shit heap like this, I definitely wasn’t sure, but I nonetheless ordered another glass of wine to keep the barman happy. Well, maybe not happy, per-se; he clearly wasn’t a happy individual. I did it to keep him contented with my presence in his unseemly tavern, I suppose. He procured the glass of wine quickly enough, which I grabbed and raised before him as if to toast his health. I didn’t give a shit about his health, but I thought it might make him a bit happier. He instead gave me a queer look of confused amusement, chuckled, shook his head, and walked off. What a filthy bastard. The wine tasted like ass, anyway; I may as well have been drinking vinegar used for cooking. I nonetheless swallowed it down and feigned satisfaction; I had bigger things to worry about.

As time continued to pass, the night grew darker. It had already been quite dark when I’d arrived, but it still somehow shifted into an even more shadowy atmosphere. The air was murky, and it wasn’t only from the smoke wafting up from the sleeping aggressor’s amazingly still lit pipe; the place had a natural dimness which, as the night grew later, morphed into an almost total blackness. The small candles lining the walls were the only sign of luminosity; like stars scattered sparsely across a lonely night sky.

After a time, the creaky front door swung open, banging against the side of the interior wall, as a tall, blonde, well-kept man strode into the tavern. She said he would turn up here, and here he was. Why he had turned up in this morbid excuse for an entertainment locus, at this dreary hour, I’m sure that I had no idea; but here he was! She hadn’t failed me after all.

He sat at the bar, not far from the sleeping aggressor. After taking a glance at him, chuckling, and looking back at the barkeep, he exclaimed:

“What’d you do to this one, huh? You feed him too much of the good stuff?”

“Not exactly. Son of a bitch can’t handle his booze, you know that well enough. He wasn’t satisfied with passing-out by himself, though; before he did he had to knock out one of my only other customers, too. Lousy piece of shit.”

“Ha! Well, you know he’ll wake up raring to go and throw whatever is left of his coin at you for more booze, so you probably shouldn’t worry yourself too heavily.”

This I found perplexing. What was this cheery, well-dressed, seemingly wealthy man doing in this revolting place? It didn’t matter. He was here, which meant that I could do my job, which I immediately began mentally preparing to do. Thinking and waiting; that was the next step; only not here; not at my table right out in the open. I needed to be somewhere else; somewhere more hidden, so that I could intercept my target completely effectively. I had no interest in shedding any of my own precious blood in this revolting place.

From my newly found dark, hidden corner of the building, I heard the old barkeep and my target continuing their previous discussion:

“Hey!” said my target, “I thought you said this unconscious fellow here was one of your only other customers, not your only customer! I don’t see anyone else in here!”

“Yeah, yeah,” responded the barkeeper, “I know I don’t get too much patronage, okay? You don’t gotta’ go rubbin’ it in. Saltin’ my already festerin’ wound, and whatnot. But no, there’s another person here. A young looking fellow at the table over there.”

I can only imagine the barkeeps look of surprise when he noticed I’d gone, and though I couldn’t see him, I certainly heard his outrage:

“What! That son of a bitch ditched on me! He’d been racking up quite a hefty tab, too! He’d been sitting there drinking for hours! He even bought flaming shots for everyone, too! That’s a shit wad of money I’m missing out on! And hell! That’s probably why these two drunk ass ole’ boys were fighting in the first place: he got them all riled up with extra liquor! That no good dirty old fuck!”

The bartender’s reaction created within me very mixed emotions. On the one hand, I thought it so humorous that I’d gotten one over on him like that I was struggling to keep from laughing uproariously. On the other hand, however, no one talked about me like that. Those words he was saying… those words about me…was something for which he needed to pay. He would pay, soon enough. As I continued to bide my time, a crazed, hysterical, angry, righteous grin spread across my face, showing all too clearly from within the shadowy corner my glowing, crimson eyes and perfect ivory teeth.

My target continued sipping his beer as he conversed cheerfully with the barkeep. He’d managed to cool him down considerably; they seemed to be quite friendly with one another. This man was far too happy. He didn’t have nearly enough to worry about; he deserved what he had coming. There was a reason he had it coming, and that reason wasn’t entirely unrelated to the chirpy, peppy nature he naturally exhibited; a nature that was so strong that it (at least to me) permeated the entirety of the building, creating a sort of ironic, detestable environment. This jolly man, having such a grand time in this loathsome place, were two sides of the same abhorrent coin. It disagreed with my being.

I continued to wait; certainly longer than I would have like to, but I was determined to finish the job; especially after having been made to witness their friendly conversation. I would wait as long as was needed. Eventually, my time would come. Eventually, it did come.

“Well,” said my target as he slammed his mug on the bar, “It’s time for me to head out. Not really looking forward to braving this storm again, but I’ve gotta’ hit the road.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the barkeep, “I’ll see ya’ next time ya’ pop in. Maybe we’ll have a livelier crowd then.”

After settling up my target’s bill, the barkeep turned and began cleaning and polishing glasses at the other end of the bar. My target arose, put on his heavy, wool coat, and walked out the door. There wasn’t much time; I needed to act as quickly as possible.

Upon hearing the door slam, I emerged from the shadows and strode briskly, but quietly, over to the bar counter. The barkeep was still polishing the glasses; he didn’t even notice I was there. That wouldn’t do.

“Hello, my friend.” I said.

The bar keep turned. A look of fright materialized on his pathetic face when he saw my crazed eyes and bared teeth. That’s all I needed. Some goddamn recognition. I raised my hand and snapped my fingers; my long finger and thumb nails scraping together and creating a horribly high-pitched noise most ordinary peasants would consider impossible. It was simultaneously both an instant, subtle click and also the most drawn out, panic-inducing screech imaginable. The barkeep, upon hearing this absurdity, covered his ears. That didn’t do any good: it wasn’t his ears that had been affected; it wasn’t his ears that I was after.

All of the pint glasses, wine bottles, and liquor bottles, which were located directly above the barkeep and lining the wall almost all the way up to the ceiling, instantaneously shattered and rained down upon him. The shattered glass, directed by my gaze, fell and took root in the barkeep; his entire body pierced all over. He fell to the floor. What a dunce.

He wasn’t yet dead, but he would be soon, as he was losing blood quite rapidly. I, being the cooperative individual that I am, decided to help him expedite the process. I walked over to him, slowly enough to create within him the panic that I wanted to see: that I wanted to cherish, but quickly enough that he didn’t lose all of his delicious, life-giving blood. I knelt beside him, looking him directly in the eye, smiled, and drank. No beverage ever given to any patron at that bar had ever tasted so good or had been so savored; of that I’m certain.

I arose and began heading to the door. The snoring aggressor was still, amazingly, sleeping soundly. I knew, however, that the previous snap of my fingers had created within him a most horrifying nightmare. I knelt next to him and touched his forehead, imprinting upon it the shape of my cursed thumbnail. I was curious as to what this nightmare was. It was unsurprisingly disinteresting, though. That’s one of the perks of being an idiot, I guess: it’s impossible for your nightmares to be very creative. Still, it amused me knowing that this man would awake, after having the most horrible dream he was capable of conjuring, and look over, obviously hungover from his blacked out previous evening, and see his beloved barkeep dead on the ground. I wondered whether or not he would think he’d done it himself. He probably would; the possibility would at minimum be forever located somewhere in the back of his mind, prone to emerge at inopportune moments. What a hilarity.

I needed to move somewhat quickly if I was to catch my target. I arose from the side of the pathetic aggressor, strode over to open the creaky door, and stepped out into the stormy abyss.

My target hadn’t gotten far. I caught his scent as soon as I’d left the bar; having had become as familiar with it as I could during my time hiding in the shadows. Besides that, he was also a noisy fucker; carefreely stomping and splashing around in the puddles like it was some sort of game as he made his way down the street. That’s part of the idiocy and ignorance of old-wealth: they always think they’re safe; that their money can protect them. Money is nothing. It would protect this man from his fate no more than the hood he was wearing over his head protected him from the torrential downpour. Which is to say, not at all.

I strode up next to him soundlessly, stopping to turn and look at his disgusting jovial face, knowing that he would also turn to meet my gaze. He did, and as soon as his look of surprised terror appeared, I grabbed his neck, pushed him up against the side of the nearby brick building, and smashed his head against it; not hard enough to kill him; not hard enough even to knock him out; just hard enough to let him know what type of situation he was in.

He fell and, as the innocent, as the fragile, as the wealthy do when they’re faced with an unexpectedly brutal fate, began acting like a child. He began flopping and flailing around in the puddles of water, struggling to gain some sort of composure. He looked up and met my eyes:

“Please! Please, sir! I don’t know what this is about, but please! I’ll do anything!”

This deplorable excuse for a man then had the nerve; had the audacity, to grab his hands around my ankles. It burned only slightly. He continued to beg.

“I have money! Plenty of money! I’ll give you as much as you want! Please! Just let me go!”

“I do not need your money,” I replied through gritted teeth.

“I’ll give you anything! Please! Just tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you! I have many connections around the city! I can get you whatever you need!”

This man was much more pathetic than even I’d expected. It was ruining the entire event for me. This was supposed to be a clean meal. I’d expected to drink from a wealthy, powerful (at least in the mortal sense), socialite; a so-called charitable, philanthropic individual. Instead, all I got was this foolish, spoiled child. What a buffoon. If this was the way it was going to be, I needed to end it as quickly as possible; I could no longer deal with the sound of his whining. It also disagreed with my being.

I knelt beside him: “You are afraid.”

“Yes! Please! Just don’t kill me!”

“Your fear will have to do; it will have to be enough for now.”

I slowly drank from this once cheery man. When I’d finished, I disappeared back into the shadow, leaving his ghostly pale body on the ground; what was left of his lifeblood pooling and mixing with the rain. At least he was dead. He wouldn’t bother my kind with his ignorance any longer. I needed to go let her know that it was finished.

End