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86'ed Again
By
Steven Hoadley
Sam entered The Blue Tooth much like he left the night before. Drunk.
"Bourbon and water," he snapped at One Arm Ray, the bartender.
"Can't serve you, Sam," said Ray. "Boss told me to cut you off. You been startin’ too much shit lately. You're 86’ed."
"Don’t make me give you matching stumps, Ray. Now give me that fucking drink!"
"Sorry, Sam. No can do."
Sam stared at One Arm with intent. Seething, contemptuous, intent to harm.
"Last chance, Ray. Gimme my drink!"
"Don’t do this, Sam," Ray warned.
Sam staggered into action. Hoisting himself onto the barstool, he started crawling over the bar. Ray jumped back.
The violent, unnatural sound of glass breaking over human skull interrupted Sam’s mission. Biker Bob, the unofficial bar bouncer, crashed open a full bottle of Bud across Sam’s head, sending him sprawling to the floor, busted-up and bleeding.
"He said get the hell out of here, Sam!" Biker Bob yelled.
Sam lay there for awhile, motionless. The small buzz created by Sam’s disturbance didn’t linger. Bar business returned to normal. Patrons stepped over and around him. Sam had become the barroom speed bump.
Finally he dragged himself up, stood for a second, ran his hand through his hair, inspected the damage, shrugged, blinked, and brushed himself off. "Damn. I
don’t think that was right. I think I’ll leave now."
Sam wobbled towards the exit, face streaked with blood. As he opened the door, he turned back. "See you tomorrow, Ray?"
"Sure," said One Arm. "We'll give it another go then."
"Okay."
Sam stumbled on home.
Copyright ©
2003 Steven Hoadley
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