[Fiction] Hero

16-corona-beer.w710.h473.2x

I’m sitting at a bar called Graffiti’s that has no graffiti. I’m taking it easy, drinking Corona beer, my version of a night off and nothing is happening. Nothing ever happens.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Last week someone called the cops on me. When the cops showed up they took me into custody and didn’t say anything. Down at the precinct they said I was a suspect in a serial murder case due to my appearance. I am white, wearing glasses, light thinning hair and was wearing a short-sleeve buttoned up shirt. They asked me three times why I was wearing such a shirt, after two hours I was released. So you see, I guess sometimes things happen.

Next to me is a guy who introduces himself as Tequila and says he was a leash baby and hates tequila. I quickly get up to use the restroom, but when I return he knows because I’m carrying over two dollars in change and it sounds like a tap class in my pocket. Not exactly incognito. I order another Corona and we both stare at a guy that walks in suspiciously wearing a trench coat. He walks right in front of an intense game of darts and almost gets hit.

I’m sort of hoping he’s a hitman and he’s going to take someone out, that would be something. Unless of course he’s looking to take out guys that have the appearance of a serial killer, that wouldn’t be good. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe hitmen should always carry their weapon in a flower box or guitar case. After he sits down he pulls out a carton of cigarettes and inspects them, bummer, not a hitman, just a shoplifter. Nothing is going to happen tonight. I order another Corona. The bartender, who is drinking tequila straight brings it over.

I look over at the cork dartboard and remember when I hit a hat trick a couple years back at this bar. That was something, I guess. Two guys are playing Cricket, one is wearing a leather jacket, the other a tank top that says BRO. I’m pretty sure I can beat both of them. My good thoughts quickly vanish as my arm is pulled. Tequila tells me about a reoccurring dream he has where a helicopter lands in front of his house and his family is kidnapped. They are taken to a non-active volcano where inside Nic Cage lives. Someone hands him a samurai sword and tells him “it’s time.” I wonder if Tequila owns a trench coat.

I order another Corona; pretty sure nothing is going to happen when something happens. Over at the dart game leather jacket throws a dart at tank top guy, hitting him in the neck, the dart doesn’t stick, but he starts choking. The whole bar just watches for what seems like minutes, but it’s just a few seconds until someone yells “Is there a doctor here?” This is Graffiti’s. There are no doctor’s here. Then the bartender looks and points at me, “This guy is only drinking Corona, he can help!”

I freeze for a second and then shrug and get off my stool and walk over. Tank top guy is on his back (BRO is staring at me) and is still choking so I kick his head to the side. He vomits everywhere and is okay. Everyone cheers even though all I really did was assault the guy. I feel like an artist praised for creating a mural of a whore being slapped by a pimp. Well, maybe not a mural, this is Graffiti’s after all. I go back to my stool. The bartender approaches tells me he is okay with my short-sleeve button down and asks me if I’d like a drink on the house.

I order a Corona.

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About Pulp Scribbler

The Writing of David S. Grant View all posts by Pulp Scribbler

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