Worlds Collide

Daniel couldn’t come up with a better more fitting option, so he went to a bar. That’s where he is sat now and has been for the last few hours.

He pays no attention to the décor of the place, especially considering that he is now nine beers deep and still hoping to drown his sorrows. It’s working, at least partially, though beneath the surface he is still incredibly angry. The self-blame and loathing have now begun to turn toward his brother. After all, it is his fault that he lost his job, his career, his life that he’d worked so hard to build and all because Vince had decided to turn up and brag his way into that meeting room with Mr Vermont. Daniel spits at the thought of the multi-billionaires name. He could have been lenient with Daniel, or done an investigation into exactly how Vince had managed to get that far, but no, he’d taken the easy way out.

Daniel looks down and realises that the bottle in his hands is empty. He sneers at the realisation and then shouts, “Bartender, I need another.”

Daniel holds the empty beer bottle up as he speaks. He doesn’t even attempt to turn his head to see exactly where the bartender is. He really doesn’t care. He just wants to be served another drink and then after that another and another and another, until he can’t walk or think or even stay conscious. Daniel hasn’t thought about what he’ll do when he finally wakes up, sober and with a hangover capable of putting even the burliest of men in a state of babbling cries for mercy because of the displeasure that a hangover can bring. Such things are considerations for another time. A time Daniel hopes he will never reach, even if it is an inevitability that he will at some point.

The bartender, used to such cries and blunt demands, wanders down from the far end of the dog leg shaped bar to serve this suit wearing man, who clearly doesn’t fit in here. The bartender isn’t about to judge however, money is money, and if anyone is able to pay he’ll gladly accept it in trade for whatever the customer requires. So long as he has it in stock. This is a bar for working men, not some poncy wine bar or club that caters to the rich, famous and delusional. If anyone wants a place like that then they should head up town and indulge in the myriad of overpriced watered-down swill sellers.

“Another beer.” Daniel orders without any pleasantries or pause for the bartender to ask what he wants.

Without a word the bartender grabs a beer bottle from under the counter and then pops the cap off the bottle before finally putting it down on the bar and stating, “That’s a fiver.”

Daniel, completely unprepared, grumbles as he fumbles with the wallet slipped into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He almost drops the leather item several times before he manages to concentrate on it enough to carefully succeed in peeling it open and then peer inside.

Daniel curses immediately. He’s out of cash and apparently had forgotten to pick up his card before he headed out for the day. It doesn’t surprise him. He doubts anything would after the days he’s had, but he needs that drink so offers, “Any chance of a tab?”

The bartender grunts before stating outright, “No way. Cash only.” Then he points to the sign behind the bar which states as much. Daniel hadn’t seen it but would have asked even if he had. Not that it matters much as he feels a sudden welling of anger because of what he feels is the bartender’s lack of compassion. If he were not drunk he’d be able to keep himself in check, or perhaps wouldn’t feel the rage at all, but he does. That’s why he demands, “Serve me, now!” and slams his balled up fist into the wooden bar hard enough that the glasses and bottles ring with a single short clatter.

Then he uses his fist to aid him in steadying himself as he rises off of the stool he had made his perch since his arrival.

His face is dark and angry, but the bartender simply pulls, in a single clean motion, a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun from behind the bar. Daniel doesn’t know quite from where, other than that it was obviously under the counter top of the bar, which is a battered wooden surface littered with splintered indentations that have since been covered with varnish to reduce the severity of the rough edges.

At the sight of the sawn-off which is now levelled at his face, Daniel surrenders and raises his hands so they are at the same height as his face.

The bartender in response to the man’s surrender begins to step forward, and in response Daniel takes equal steps back. This continues until the bartender has stepped out from behind the bar.

Daniel, at no point attempts to make any sudden movements. Doing so will likely result in his head being blasted clean off his shoulders and he has no wish to die today. He would have to admit though, that it would somehow be a fitting end to what he can quite honestly say is the worst day of his life. At least the bar is sparsely frequented, which at this hour of mid-afternoon is no surprise.

That is why as the bartender continues to take one careful step forward after another, Daniel responds with a back step of his own in response. This continues until Daniel steps from under the cover of the bars doorway overhang and out into the pouring warm rain.

It is at this point that the bartender demands. “Don’t ever try and come back here. If you do you’ll see what buckshot is like up close, understand?”

“I do and I won’t.” Daniel assures in the moments before the bartender, convinced that the drunken man has learned his lesson, turns to head back into his bar. As he does Daniel springs forward in attack. The sudden assault catches the slightly shorter but much wider bartender off guard.

The bartender never considered that the man would attack him, but nevertheless he has and has even managed to get a hand on the sawn-off.

The bartender tries to fight back and shove Daniel off in hopes that if he pushes the drunk man hard enough his grip will slip off the sawn-off and allow him to regain control of the situation. If he doesn’t then the drunken man might manage to wrestle and obtain control of the weapon.

After a short time Daniel, using his size, age and muscle against the bartender, manages to wrench the sawn-off shotgun from the bartenders’ hands.

As soon as he has hold of the weapon the bartender throws up his hands, turns his head away, closing one eye and begins to beg for mercy. This is not how the bartender wants to die and he’ll do anything to see tomorrow.

But after a period of silence the bartender dares to lower his hands a little, open his previously closed eye and turn toward where the drunken man who won the gun should be. However, Daniel isn’t there. The bartender doesn’t understand but he thanks his lucky stars all the same.