“Alright! Which one of you butt-fucking monkeys want it first?” They all turned and there was this old man standing in the doorway holding a broomstick in one hand, and a slab of beef in the other. It was fresh meat and it dripped to the hardwood floor.
“You shut up!” the bartender yelled, “And get the fuck out of here; you’re scaring these kids!”
The old man shouted something they couldn’t understand and slowly turned around and was gone.
“Sorry,” the bartender said, “That’s Al. He was let loose from Lighthouse Asylum a few years ago and still thinks the war is on.”
“Well, technically it is,” said Jim.
“Not the war you’re thinking of.”
“A war is a war is a war,” said Jim. “It’s one of those constancies in this world that people have created to give themselves something to do to keep going, and with no mercy for the common man.”
“I heard they were re-opening the draft,” said Ernie.
“Yeah, I heard about that,” said Jim, “And if it does, I’m on a bus to Canada. Or hitchhiking. I’ll disappear. I don’t believe in what they are doing.”
“My cousin was in the Marines,” said Mark. “He did two tours in Iraq as a weapons specialist.”
“What did he say it was like?” Ernie asked.
“He said they stared into the desert more than anything. He was over there for over a year and a half and only saw one incident involving home-made explosives and a child.” He shook his head. “This little girl just walked right into a base unnoticed and, when they saw her they approached, and, boom . . .”
“Fuck,” said Ernie.
“That could have been avoided if our government wasn’t bleeding this world dry,” said Jim. “Typical wartime bullshit. You sit there, you wait, nothing ever happens. If it does, it fucks you up for life. Life, man. Think about that.” He shook his head. “Me, never going.”
“Yeah?” said Ernie. “What makes you so special?”
“That’s not what it’s about,” said Jim. “It’s not about me or what I do in this world. It’s what I won’t do, what I won’t contribute to. I won’t fight for something I don’t believe in.”
“Hey kid,” said the bartender. “I was in the war. It was a real honor fighting for this country and if it wasn’t for the events in the past you youngsters wouldn’t be sitting here talking all ungrateful. Didn’t your parents ever teach you about respect? You should be thankful.”
Jim stood up.
“My grandfather flew in WWII. He had nightmares after he came home, all the way up until his death. I had to take care of him for the last six years, after my grandmother died. The war tore him to pieces. After seeing what it had done to him I can say whatever the fuck I want!”
Jim grabbed his beer and threw it at the bartender. The bartender ducked, the glass crashed into the mirror against the wall and it all rained down on top of the bottles. Some fell to the floor and exploded at the bartenders feet.
“You little son of a bitch! I want all of you to get the hell out of my bar right now!”
Jim reached out and swung. Ernie grabbed him by his arms and held him back. “Come on come on,” he said.
“Get out!”
Jim shook himself loose and walked out the door. “Fuck you and your bar!”
“That goes for all of you too!” said the bartender, pointing a finger at Mark and Ernie.
“What the fuck did we do?” Ernie said.
“You his friend? You get out of my bar!”
“We’re sorry,” Mark said as he pulled a few bills out of his pocket and offered them up on the bar. “Sorry about this.”
They followed Jim outside.
“What the fuck Jim?”
“Can you believe that fucking guy? The fucking nerve on him.”
“On him?” Ernie said. “You threw your fucking glass at him.”
“The fucking guy pisses me off man!” He paced back and forth. “Fuck this.” He turned and made for the door.
“No! what the fuck are you doing?”
Ernie grabbed Jim and kept him from going back inside.
“Let me go goddamnit!”
“You guys, fucking cool it!” said Mark.
“He’s going to call the cops!” said Ernie.
Jim shook him off and stormed down the street.
“Fuck you guys! Fuck this shit!”
“Jim! Where you going?”
“Home!”
“What, you’re walking?”
“I’m not riding back with you two fuckheads.”
Ernie began walking after Jim but Mark stopped him.
“Let him go. He’s had too much to drink. The walk will sober him up. Jim! We’ll see you back at the apartment!”
“Yeah, fucking whatever.”
As he walked Jim laid a fist into storefronts, smashed the hoods of cars, knocked over anything he saw fit. He made it two blocks when a sudden arm reached out and grabbed him around the throat, yanked him down an alley.
“What the fuck! Get the fuck off me!”
He was face to face with the old man, still holding the broomstick.
“You know why we have emotions?”
He was grinning and breathing hard.
“You crazy mother–“
He slapped the broomstick across Jim’s face. Jim spun around and crumbled into the wall behind him.
“Fuck!”
He hit him again. The sound of the stick echoed down the alley. Jim spit blood down his shirt.
“The fuck is this?”
The old man crouched down and pushed his insane eye’s into Jim’s.
“It’s because God is a junkie! Let’s give him a fix!”
His breath stank of raw meat.
Jim tried to get up but the old man belted him with the broomstick again; so hard that the stick broke in two and splintered. Jim recoiled and blacked out.
The old man reached in and found Jim’s wallet, removed the cash and credit cards. He walked away, rounded the corner and got back to the bar. The bartender greeted him as he walked in.
Author: Lawrence Goodwin
