The Family

Written on December 29, 2008 after some rich bastards hit on my sister, the bartender.

There's a cool breeze sweeping over the distant mountains, across the frigid valley to the window in front of my desk. It's a long journey before it comes to an abrupt halt due to the invisible barrier set out to keep me warm. The chill here cuts through clothing in the sort of indiscriminate fashion that a thief feels when viewing an opportunity. The job is done regardless of the consequences. The thief will steel the wallet from a cop. The wind will blow through windproof clothing.

Less than twenty four hours ago I was schmoozing with the wealthy suburbanites at a bar in northern New Jersey, pretending to give a fuck about their right winged viewpoints spouted by voices lubricated with expensive scotch. If you tell them what they want to hear you can fit in, regardless of your present garb. They believe that the man wearing the ripped sweatshirt and jeans faded from many walked miles is on their side and the sign is muttered by the cigar toned comment towards the bartender when they say, "Put his drinks on my tab." Now it's off to the races with fifteen year old single malts, or perhaps a fine double mellowed bourbon with no ice. They'll talk more as the glasses empty. I'll sip and set into the mood to give them a chance at understanding.

The man on my right is happily dressed in Versace and wears a sultan's worth or gold on his fingertips. The keys to his Porsche sit on the bar next to him while he comments on the bartender's looks. Little does this swine realize that the bartender is my sister and that my smile only hides the fantasies of slashing each one of his thousand dollar tires on the way out. But that's another moment and I'll let it go for now. The man's name is Tony and the bulge in his front right jacket pocket is probably a gun, or maybe just a wad of credit cards and folded bills meant to look like the profile of a gun to the less-than-learned folk who will allow him to intimidate. Let the sun of a bitch pull a gun and think about taking a shot. I'll have him on the ground in less than a second. He may carry arms, but I carry the indifferent madness that only the thief and the wind know. It's a good thing he's buying the scotch, otherwise I might have never given him the chance to speak.

In walks a beautiful blonde whose beauty fades as she mistakenly walks through a brightly lit section of the hallway where her pulled and peeled plastic face comes into view. Her high heels double her size and the tight red dress covers no more than a third of her body leaving much of her chest and thighs in full view. Her fake, firm manufactured ass was probably hanging out but I gave up on watching the staggering half-breed and went back to sipping scotch. She sat aside Tony. He greats her with that Italian charmed. She's a high priced whore but I'd rather take a nap than get serviced by her collagen lips.

All along my sister, Alicia, watches from behind the bar, scrubbing glasses and serving patrons gin and tonics with the occasional chardonnay for their young diamond clad women. Tony is the only one drinking scotch, besides me, at this point. I am enjoying a smooth glass of that double mellowed bourbon that is costing Tony twenty six dollars per pour. Alicia finishes scrubbing the last glass and looks at me before walking into the back room through the swinging double door. I look down at the glass and take the final swig before slamming down on the table and interrupting Tony's conversation with the once beautiful blonde. It's Christmas Eve and it's time to make a scene.

"So, Tony, who is this filthy slut you've got sitting on your crusty lap," I say starring straight at him, "She looks like a fuckin' man." He drops his glass on the bar and stands from his stool as the wench tries to spit in my face before falling to the side of the bar.

"Who the fuck do you think you are," he says reaching into that front right bulge I momentarily wondered about earlier. It becomes apparent in the split second before the contents of his pocket come into full view that this man is ruled by his emotions, that his out of shape body does not have the ability to fight back, and that his blonde companion would be used as a shield if the opportunity presented itself. The jacket opens and a silver Smith and Wesson comes out with hopes of getting the right perspective to send a led slug into my left frontal lobe. I move to the right kicking the stool out from under me when the first bullet is fired. He yells again, "I'm gonna fuckin kill you."

The gun swipes sideways, and I grab the barrel, swinging it around, jarring the handle out of his golden grip. He looks at it for a second before diving behind the bar. Then Alicia walks out through the swinging doors with a twelve gauge, inviting the man to give her a reason to place two shells worth of buck shot into his chest. The other patrons, now huddled under their tables, make no movement as Tony stands in silence to greet the face of her weapon, the site of the short woman with the cannon.

"You fucking whore. Who the fuck do you think you are?" Tony says towards my sister. There is no hesitation as I drop the barrel of his weapon which rests gently in my hand to fire a shot into the side of his right knee cap.

"Don't call my sister a whore," I say calmly, as I walk around the bar placing the gun to his forehead. Alicia holds strong and says nothing. I reach into his pocket and remove his wallet. "You just fucked with the wrong man," I say, "but thanks for the scotch." After those words I pull the trigger one last time sending the back of his head onto the floor in pieces too small to see.

I look over at Alicia who is keeping a lookout for movement from the others. "You ready to go?" I ask.

"Yeah, lets get the fuck out of here." she says, moving quickly to grab the keys on the bar. "Now nobody is going to say a word right?" she says looking at the shaking souls trying to keep from being noticed.

"No, they wont talk, I'll make sure of that. Go start the car," I say as she turns and begins to walk out of the bar through the back. There is silence until a man under a table in the corner shakes his leg violently causing his drink to spill above his head, letting the glass smash into pieces on the ground.

"I'm sorry!" he shouts through his tears," Please don't hurt me, please, I have a family. Oh God please…"
"Ah, don't stress it man, glasses break all the time in bars, besides I need to ask you a question. Is that your wife next to you?" I ask pointing at a brunette in a black dress curled up in the fetal position behind him.

"No….she….she's my girlfriend," he says beginning to sob, "My wife is at home...with the kids."

"Well that’s too bad." I said to him, "she would probably enjoy this if she knew you were out whoring with other women on
Christmas Eve." With that said I place the gun up to his eyes, which close tightly before I pull the trigger and take away his life. The woman shakes behind him and lets out a small squeak. I can tell she is crying softly. "Anyone in here actually with their wives tonight? How about with a girlfriend? Is there anyone here who wants to claim that they are an honest and good person?" I say loudly. There are no words spoken. Three men were left in the bar with their whores. With three shots their lives are over and I walked outside.

The Porsche is running. Alicia is in the passenger seat. I step in and snap my seatbelt. "Some people just don't get it. They live their whole lives without getting it."

"At least there are less of them now." she says as she adjusts the chair so it sits just right. "Besides, we're just doing what needs to be done. Those guys had no idea what was going on. I'm glad you took care of em. You did take care of all of em right?"

"Yeah, except for the women, they have room to breath. It aint their fault.”