Every Good Story Starts at the Bar

The night was old and most rational people had gone to bed, yet one small, hole-in-the-wall building felt every bit as alive as town square at noon. Scruffy and ragged patrons of the bar filled the room, a smelly sea of ne’er do wells. The lights were dim. The door was forcefully kicked open to reveal a Davie’s regular, a man in his twenties with a hard expression and a long, long coat. Tonight, his hard expression was bruised, and splotches of dried blood hemmed the bottom of his coat. Despite his flashy entrance, he took his usual seat at the bar with the calculated calm of someone who knew they were getting what they came for, regardless of presence.

“What’ll it be?” A grinning bartender asked.

The man looked at him dully. “The usual.”

The bartender mulled on that for a moment, before huffing out, “Riiiigght, translate for the new kid?”

“Pint ‘a whiskey,” he relented. “And make it quick.”

“On it.”

Surely enough, less than a minute later a pint of whiskey sat before the customer, and a few gold coins were handed to the worker. The latter raised an eyebrow at the definite overpaying of the former, but chose not to mention it. He did, however, mention the man’s current state of health.

“You’re looking pretty worn for wear. There a reason?”

“There’s always a reason,” he answered, then took a great swig from his mug.

A few uncomfortable minutes passed of the bartender’s rapt attention and the drinker’s unwillingness to speak, until he sighed and continued:

“You see that man over there?” He subtly gestured to a dark corner, in which sat two men. The first was rather plain-looking, but the second was a sight to behold, a lanky, six-foot-six behemoth. It was a wonder he was able to get suits in his size. Both of their jackets bore a peculiar but distinct symbol, a red circle with an X through it.

The bartender glanced at them and nodded.

“He owes me a good coin for my services. Tonight, I’m going to get it back.”

This sparked the bartender’s intrigue. “Your services?”

“Bounty hunting,” he said bluntly.

The bartender winced. “Ooh, fun.”

He shrugged. “Eh, it pays the bills. Typically means I get to pick off the scum of the Earth, too.”

“So you’re the vigilante type.”

“Pretty much.”

A couple shouts broke out in the center of the room, followed by an exchanging of fists. A stool came flying at the man and the bartender, only for them to duck out of the way, the wood smashing against the wall behind them.

The bartender thrusted a hand at the man. “Drew Hussie, pleasure to meet ya’.”

He eyed the appendage warily, but took it nonetheless. “Nathaniel Winchester. If you’re staying here for long, you’ll see me around.”

“Oh believe me, I plan to.” Drew’s grin briefly turned shark-like, lime-colored eyes almost glowing from behind those innocent nerd glasses. He abruptly released the hand, backing away to take care of other customers. “Later.” His final remark was coupled with a cheesy wink.

It was only well after the bartender had left that Nat inspected his now-throbbing hand. Painting it purple were dark welts that perfectly formed the silhouette of a seemingly delicate hand held in the usual manner.

Note to self: the new guy’s stronger than he looks.