Night Life
By J. Scott Kunkle
The club was a seedy dive, situated in the center of one of the worst blocks in the city. The walls were a peeling purple and the dance floor was missing dozens of tiles. The mirrored pillars were broken and the overhead lights hung in disarray, or were missing completely. Even the bar itself was battered and scarred; the large mirror hanging behind the aged maple cracked in several places.
I stood just inside the door, ignoring the door attendant’s repeated requests for a five-dollar cover charge. I pushed him aside and walked the length of the bar, scrutinizing the people seated on their stools, all intent on becoming inebriated as quickly as possible. The two men closest to the door were watching the small television over the back counter, guzzling their beer and paying no attention to the rest of the bar. There was a woman in the center leaning over the bar and sipping her mixed drink through a straw. Her hair was coarse and her makeup heavy and she had probably been on that same stool since the place opened in 1975.
Smiling to myself, I stood at the other end of the bar, near the club’s lone pool table. The server passed by, a short, thin girl in her early twenties. Pretty in an obvious sort of way, with the prerequisite low cut, too tight t-shirt emblazoned with the bar’s name. In this instance, her breasts said Pelican Grill.
I followed her through the throng of people until I saw an empty table near the dance floor, situated adjacent to one of the mirror-covered pillars. I slid onto one of the two chairs available and waved at the server as she passed.
“What’ll it be, honey?”
“Amber Bock,” I informed her and she disappeared into the sea of humanity.
Situated across the dance floor from me, was a small table with computer equipment set up on it. A pair of large speakers stood upon stands on either side of the table. The man behind the table, in his early forties with long brown hair, hurried about setting up the equipment while another man, this one with grey hair, tested the microphone in hand.
The server appeared with a frosty glass of dark lager. I over-paid and motioned at the two men, giving her a quizzical look.
“Karaoke,” she instantly responded, then hurried to another table.
I quickly downed half my beer and the beckoned to the server on her way back to the bar for another. She smiled, nodded and rushed off. The deejay, the man with the long hair announced the night’s attraction and then started singing, a passable interpretation of “Jealous Again” by the Black Crowes. By the time the grey-haired man started singing “I am The Walrus” I had finished my first beer and was starting on my second.
Looking around the room, I wondered who it was going to be this time. The deejay, maybe, or his friend? The two men near the pool table? Whoever it was, they were going to show soon. It was almost time.
I spotted the man as soon as he entered the room, shouldering his way through the crowd near the door. He stood looking across the dance floor, scanning the crowd. I could see that he did not look very amiable, which was not surprising considering what he had in his mind. I downed the remainder of my third beer and stood, making my way to the pool table, where I leaned against the wall.
The man was across the room from me, walking my way along the bar, as I had when I entered, although he was none too gently with the other patrons. As he reached my end of the bar, he knocked down a cute blonde-haired woman. Before anything else could happen, the man pulled a large pistol from beneath his coat and waved it in the air.
“Get the *#%! down!”
The crowd around him dropped, but many others were unaware of what was happening even a scant few feet away. He leveled his pistol at the bartender and smiled.
That was when I stepped to him quickly and shot him in the ear, the barrel of my .380 against the side of his head.
He dropped without making a sound, the slug from my gun passing through his head and entering the ceiling above. I replaced my pistol beneath my coat and walked calmly out of the bar. The patrons near the door were still unaware anything had happened yet, as the sounds of someone destroying a Metallica tune permeated the club.
I gave the befuddled door attendant his five-dollar cover charge as I went out into the night. I lit a cigarette once in the parking lot, dragging deep as I started walking.
I still had many places to be tonight. Maybe I should sing at the next place. If they have any Blue Oyster Cult, that is.
- - -
By J. Scott Kunkle
The club was a seedy dive, situated in the center of one of the worst blocks in the city. The walls were a peeling purple and the dance floor was missing dozens of tiles. The mirrored pillars were broken and the overhead lights hung in disarray, or were missing completely. Even the bar itself was battered and scarred; the large mirror hanging behind the aged maple cracked in several places.
I stood just inside the door, ignoring the door attendant’s repeated requests for a five-dollar cover charge. I pushed him aside and walked the length of the bar, scrutinizing the people seated on their stools, all intent on becoming inebriated as quickly as possible. The two men closest to the door were watching the small television over the back counter, guzzling their beer and paying no attention to the rest of the bar. There was a woman in the center leaning over the bar and sipping her mixed drink through a straw. Her hair was coarse and her makeup heavy and she had probably been on that same stool since the place opened in 1975.
Smiling to myself, I stood at the other end of the bar, near the club’s lone pool table. The server passed by, a short, thin girl in her early twenties. Pretty in an obvious sort of way, with the prerequisite low cut, too tight t-shirt emblazoned with the bar’s name. In this instance, her breasts said Pelican Grill.
I followed her through the throng of people until I saw an empty table near the dance floor, situated adjacent to one of the mirror-covered pillars. I slid onto one of the two chairs available and waved at the server as she passed.
“What’ll it be, honey?”
“Amber Bock,” I informed her and she disappeared into the sea of humanity.
Situated across the dance floor from me, was a small table with computer equipment set up on it. A pair of large speakers stood upon stands on either side of the table. The man behind the table, in his early forties with long brown hair, hurried about setting up the equipment while another man, this one with grey hair, tested the microphone in hand.
The server appeared with a frosty glass of dark lager. I over-paid and motioned at the two men, giving her a quizzical look.
“Karaoke,” she instantly responded, then hurried to another table.
I quickly downed half my beer and the beckoned to the server on her way back to the bar for another. She smiled, nodded and rushed off. The deejay, the man with the long hair announced the night’s attraction and then started singing, a passable interpretation of “Jealous Again” by the Black Crowes. By the time the grey-haired man started singing “I am The Walrus” I had finished my first beer and was starting on my second.
Looking around the room, I wondered who it was going to be this time. The deejay, maybe, or his friend? The two men near the pool table? Whoever it was, they were going to show soon. It was almost time.
I spotted the man as soon as he entered the room, shouldering his way through the crowd near the door. He stood looking across the dance floor, scanning the crowd. I could see that he did not look very amiable, which was not surprising considering what he had in his mind. I downed the remainder of my third beer and stood, making my way to the pool table, where I leaned against the wall.
The man was across the room from me, walking my way along the bar, as I had when I entered, although he was none too gently with the other patrons. As he reached my end of the bar, he knocked down a cute blonde-haired woman. Before anything else could happen, the man pulled a large pistol from beneath his coat and waved it in the air.
“Get the *#%! down!”
The crowd around him dropped, but many others were unaware of what was happening even a scant few feet away. He leveled his pistol at the bartender and smiled.
That was when I stepped to him quickly and shot him in the ear, the barrel of my .380 against the side of his head.
He dropped without making a sound, the slug from my gun passing through his head and entering the ceiling above. I replaced my pistol beneath my coat and walked calmly out of the bar. The patrons near the door were still unaware anything had happened yet, as the sounds of someone destroying a Metallica tune permeated the club.
I gave the befuddled door attendant his five-dollar cover charge as I went out into the night. I lit a cigarette once in the parking lot, dragging deep as I started walking.
I still had many places to be tonight. Maybe I should sing at the next place. If they have any Blue Oyster Cult, that is.
- - -
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