Stevie was not feeling well. He
had been out on the streets for over a month now, the last few weeks being
particularly rough. His poor attempt at stitching himself up after being
stabbed had resulted in a heavy wad of scar tissue developing around his collar
bone, and the string of cold nights in alleyways and under bridges had left his
lungs slightly flooded. He was in desperate need of a stay in hospital. And
more importantly he was hungry.
But Stevie had more pressing
matters at hand. He drew the rim of his hat down as the man passed behind his
seat. On the counter in front of him he had an empty seven ounce glass, his
keys and the barman’s old bar rag. He began slowly wrapping the towel around
his right hand with the patience of a boxer. The man spoke to the other patron
at the bar.
“Well look who we have here” he
said with a sinister tone of victory, “Phil! It’s been a long time.”
Phil looked up with a fearful
expression. The Citadel agent took a step towards him. Stevie placed his glass
in his bandaged hand and silently turned on his stool.
“C’mon Phil, don’t act like you
don’t remember me.”
Phil stood up and held his empty
beer bottle by the neck like the handle of a knife. He smashed it on the
counter and waved it at the agent threateningly. Stevie used the distraction to
get closer to the agent who was still unaware of his presence.
Phil swung his weapon through the
air as the agent dodged and pushed him off balance. Phil stumbled backwards and
the agent laughed. Phil regained himself and swung again clumsily. The agent
stepped sideways and ducked teasingly. He shuffled backwards toward Stevie as
he played with his prey. Phil lunged forward in a jab but the agent took his
wrist and the bottle fell to the floor, shattering. The agent pulled him close
to his face and spoke with a fierce sense of hatred:
“I bet you thought I was dead.”
“I bet you thought the same about
me.” Stevie growled and swung his right hand in a looping hook. The agent, in
his surprise, turned his head around, unable to protect himself as his hands
were still around Phil. The two motions synchronised and the glass shattered
and splintered on the agent’s face. He stumbled to the side, releasing Phil as
he struggled to stay upright. Stevie stepped forward and threw all his weight
into it as he punched down onto the agent’s exposed kidney. The agent dropped
to his knees, still facing away from Stevie. Stevie loosened the bar rag and
removed a shard of glass from his thumb. Blood leaked out, in a soft stream to
his elbow. He hooked the rag around the agent’s neck and laid his knee into his
back, aiming for the spine.
“Go.” He ordered and tilted his
head towards his keys at the counter.
The agent clawed at his faced.
Stevie pulled with all his strength which was quickly draining. The agent
managed to slip one foot onto the floor, his other leg still kneeling. He could
feel his grip getting weaker, his weeks of malnutrition and exile taking their
toll.
“Let him go!” the barman shouted,
his single barrel shotgun pressed against Stevie’s temple, “I ain’t afraid to-”
The agent launched himself off his
planted foot and a deafening explosion rang out in front of Stevie’s eyes as
the gun fired its round. “Shit!” the barman popped the weapon open and took a
round from his pocket.
Stevie had been slammed backwards
into the base of the counter. He struggled to lift himself to a seating
position. The agent stood with menacing patience. He took the blood soaked rag
from his throat and inhaled with difficulty. The barman raised his weapon but
the agent was too quick. He grabbed the barrel and redirected the shot at
Stevie, chunks of wood flying out of the barstool next to him. The agent jabbed
the butt of the gun into the barman’s face causing him to release his grip. He
then delivered a heavier blow dropping the man to the floor in a heap.
Stevie had managed to take a knee,
using the barstool as support. He dragged it in front of himself just in time to
deflect the baseball bat swing of the shotgun. He kicked the agent’s knee,
almost dislocating it and sent another kick to his jaw. Adrenaline surged as he
stood to his feet and threw the remains of the barstool. It splintered over the
agent’s back but he still didn’t fall.
Stevie was gasping for air,
hunched slightly and staring at his adversary. The agent stared back at him
through his bloodied and possibly blinded eye. He stood tall and appeared to
regain his strength by the second. Flight flashed through Stevie’s conscious
and he glanced to the door of the bar remembering Phil in the car. The agent
caught his surrender and smiled. He threw the shotgun to the side and stepped
aggressively forward. Stevie postured up and swung a tired right. The agent
blocked it and hit him with a damaging strike to the face. Stevie fell to the
floor and received a heavy boot to his gut.
“Arrgh!” he cried and curled up in
pain. He felt the bile in his stomach rising through his throat. He swallowed
it back down and tried to stand. Another blow, this time not as hard. The agent
was taking his time.
“So Whisky didn’t kill you?” he
said, “I wonder why.” He paced towards the far end of the bar, towards the
entrance and took a clear spirit from the wall. He drank a short swig and then
poured the remains over his face. He groaned in restrained agony and threw the
bottle against the wall. He looked back at Stevie, the damage to his face
revealed for a brief moment before the blood began to leak out.
Stevie could barely breathe
through the pain. He felt a few ribs digging into his lung. The scar tissue
below his collar bone had reopened. He thought about death. Did he regret it?
“I guess after I kill you and
after I kill that punk kid, I’ll have to go have a word with my old partner
too. Find out the history between-”
It all happened in slow motion. A
distant revving sound suddenly grew thunderous in Stevie’s distorted hearing.
The door, its framing and the immediate wall surrounding the frame was smashed
open as Taylor’s car came bursting into the bar. The agent was hurled forward
like a rag doll by the force. The car came to stop, the right headlight of the
car less than a metre from Stevie’s face. He was blinded and barely recognised
Phil as he helped to his feet.
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