Closing Time at Wilkie's Pub
I started this little story over a year ago and then left it to fester when I got all lazy and disinterested. Now that I'm making a conscious effort to write again (hm, have I said that before?) I decided to finish it. So here it is, in next-to-final draft form. What do you think?
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Wilkie’s Pub on Rural Route 2 was tended by a toothless one hundred-year-old woman. The Pub could only be found by traversing the gravel road that ran one mile parallel to the interstate - a trip that was hindered by the pub being ten miles from any exit. Hidden behind dry brush and lifeless trees so strong that they must be zombies, one could find a line of parked pick-up trucks leading to the waterhole on any given night.
The farmers, local laborers and other assorted and bored yokels came from out the darkness to drink, throw darts, and shoot pool at Wilkie’s Pub. Annie, the toothless one hundred-year-old bartender always wore shirts whose necklines dove deep into the dusted and wrinkly cavern where her breasts had been some half century ago, but where now cigarette ash and spilled beer collected into a plot of flesh that looked like cracked magma.
As far as anyone knew, Annie worked there every day, perhaps never even sleeping. She raked a splintered mop over broken bottles and assorted trash every night until four in the morning, her twig-thin bones rattling along inside her sallow and moley skin, and yet she was seen every morning, fresh as a silk daisy, at nine o’clock to let the early birds in.
Wilkie’s Pub, hidden from the city folk and not listed in any yellow pages, temporarily held the souls of the men and women who sifted in and out of its doors night after night. These people knew of the place from their friends, who in turn knew of it from their friends, which is where the grapevine stopped as there weren’t that many people to be friends with out in the country. Everyone who drank there knew each other, and their eyes moved over the same butts and boobs through a thin blanket of cigarette smoke while the jukebox blared the same old time country songs in predictable succession.
Everything was always the same, until one night when the headlights shining through the front window weren’t pale yellow, but blue, like the new xenon-flavored lights they’d heard of in newspapers. A young man in a thin, black leather jacket walked through the door, causing Annie’s sunken and marbled eyes to bulge out for a moment, her mind grinding through the same thought as everyone else’s: who is he, and why doesn’t he look like any of our kin?
The chatter died down, and the smoke seemed to slink back from the stranger as he walked past the blue eyes under green John Deere caps. Spilled beer parted ways to leave a dry spot as he propped his arm up on the bar, and he smiled his straight white teeth at Annie. He turned to the rest of the crowd.
“Let me start,” he said, “by saying that I am dead. Could I get a beer, Annie?” and he winked at her, then placed a gun on the bar. “Because this is going to take a while.”
The crowd tried to push themselves back into the walls, and the ones that couldn’t hide behind someone else moved to the door, but the stranger spoke again.
“Please don’t go. There’s a lot that needs saying tonight, and I wouldn’t want any of you fine people to miss it. It’s actually kind of funny.” The dead bolt slammed into place, punctuating the statement with a harsh clang. “You’re gonna love it,” he said.
Annie looked at the man with angry eyes, not quivering like the rest of the people, and slammed the glass of beer on the counter, her skin flapping rudely at him. He thanked her with a nod and drew the pint to his lips, sucking a little liquid into his mouth and swishing it around his teeth. His eye twitched a little as he swallowed.
“You don’t have light beer, do you, Annie?” he asked.
“Huh?” she said, like he was speaking in an uppity tone just to embarrass her. The man chuckled and set the glass down.
“Okay, let’s see here, my lovelies. My name is Carsten. As you may be able to tell, I’m not from around here. It’s more than a beer-long tale to tell you where I come from, but just suffice it to say that I’m here right now, and that’s what counts. Oh my, do you all look so freaked out. If only you knew, you’d be laughing right now,” and he smiled as he picked the gun up off the bar and waved it in front of them. “What could it be? Did I say something to get you spooked?” A young woman in a red sweatshirt clutching her boyfriend’s arm nodded unconsciously at this.
“Yes dear?” said the stranger. The girl looked nervously around at the others. Her hair, a brown tint muddled from every family line in the area, waved like thin wire in front of her face as she shook her head. “Oh don’t be shy. What did I say to scare you?”
She stared at the ground for a moment, and then said softly, “You said you were dead.”
“Oh, right!” and the stranger smiled and shook his head while he took another sip of beer. “I did, didn’t I? I’m sure you don’t believe me. But I am dead. See?” He swung the gun to his right temple and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot sucked the breath from everyone in the room, especially those who were splattered with skull- and brain-laden blood. The man stood woozily, his eyes rolled into the back of his head while dark, thick blood rolled in syrupy rivers down his head and neck. The bystanders tried to blink away the gore to keep an eye on the body, which as of yet hadn’t fallen. Then his knees gave way, and he sunk to the floor, stopping just before his knees hit.
“Oh wait,” he murmured, and he leaned back and grabbed a wiping rag from off the bar and placed it under his knees. “I don’t want to bruise my kneecaps.” Then he slumped the rest of the way, and fell face first into the ground with a wet slap.
Everyone froze, no one looking at those soaked with brain matter, all eyes on this young man lying on the floor with a nearly-black stain forming around his head.
“Shit,” he mumbled into the ground. “I always forget to protect the face. Anyway, I think you get the point.” He placed a sturdy hand on the floor and shakily lifted his torso, light strands of blood connecting his head and the peeled linoleum. He looked around at the stony faces; some of them had changed their expression to anger, and one in particular, the man with the red sweatshirt-wearing girl at his arm, looked especially motivated to do something.
“There isn’t a thing in the world I’d like to do more,” said Carsten as he pushed himself onto his knees, “than to turn you inside-out right now and hang your intestines on your twitching carcass like Christmas lights on a tree. But I think we have different ideas of fun. Why don’t you calm down?” The man’s expression remained angry, but his fists relaxed enough to let Carsten know that he could proceed. He got up and wiggled a finger in the hole in his head, then glanced at it and wiped it on his shirt.
Somewhere in a corner of the bar a click echoed through the silence. An old rotary dial lazily clicked its way back from the nine. Carsten swung a bloodied finger in Annie’s direction, splattering some glasses and bottles behind the bar.
“Stop that right now, Annie!” he yelled. “Just give me a moment, and then you can make all the phone calls you want.” He heard the dial take another, much shorter turn from the one. “Annie, please stop.” He leveled the gun at the far end of the bar. “The curtain’s still up, and the show must go on, and any disturbances will be ushered out.” The whole crowd took in a collective gasp as though their similar DNA had been programmed to do just that. Somewhere in the midst of their mental pleading Annie heard their concern, and the receiver of the phone slammed down. A scarred claw of a hand grabbed the bar and soon she hoisted herself up, glaring intensely at Carsten. He lowered the gun and motioned her over.
“Okay folks,” he said, “I guess you all don’t appreciate dramatics as much as I’d hoped. No matter. While Annie is pouring me a fresh glass I’ll let you know why I’m here.” He started sitting down in empty space when a stool slid along the bumpy ground to connect with him. Another stool crawled over from the opposite end of the room, dragging some of his blood along the floor, and he propped his legs up on that. “I’m not totally clueless. I realize that this is kind of frightening, so I want to assure that I don’t mean any of you harm. Well, most of you, anyway. There are some here that no doubt deserve a lot of harm, you know, like the kind they used to do to black people in these parts not all that long ago. And there’s at least one man standing amongst you that very well might not be doing that harm for much longer. Whoever that is, if he would just step forward right now the rest of you can leave.” The dead bolt slid open, causing the rickety door to crack open a tad. The crowd made a break for the opening, but it slammed shut and locked before any of them could touch the handle.
Carsten sighed. “Where’s that beer, Annie?” She slid his blood-splattered glass toward him. “This one’s a little dirty, don’t you think?” he said. She shrugged, and Carsten smiled and took a sip. “Watch this,” he told Annie. A window near the door slid open, and a man lunged toward it. Before his hands made it outside the window crashed shut, nearly taking his fingers off. One by one various windows throughout the pub opened and shut, even ones that no one had been able to pry open for years, sending the crowd surging from one end of the pub to the another, each following the other in hopes that at least one person would make it out and set the rest free.
Annie grumbled at Carsten, unimpressed by his antics. “Folks! Knock it off!” she called out with a voice that was held together by congealed cigarette smoke. “Just let the man finish and get the hell out.” The crowd still bounded from window to window. Annie coughed and sneered at Carsten. “Look! When he’s gone it’s free pool for the rest of the night!” The crowd slowed a bit while windows around them slid up and down.
“And free darts?” asked a voice.
Annie looked at Carsten. “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” Carsten nodded. “Yes, free darts, too,” she said to the now quiet mass. They all shuffled back to Carsten, breathing heavily from all the dashing around and inhaling nothing but days of old smoke.
“Thanks, Annie,” said Carsten. He hopped off the stool and looked each of them in the eye, moving from person to person, putting his bloodied face close to theirs, stepping quickly and silently like one of the wolves that lived behind the pub. “You know what I’m doing right now?” he asked to no one in particular as he studied a plump lady in her twenties who looked and smelled like she was in her fifties. “I’m reading your minds. I can do that, you know, because I’m dead. And I am going to find out which one of you is a liar. You see, I’ve been tracking this person for a while now. I’ve been all over the state looking, and now I’ve found him. I know he’s right here, tonight. Do you want to know what he’s done?” Carsten moved in close to a scrawny young man with a goatee, whose adam’s apple darted quickly up and down while he contemplated answering.
“S-sure,” said the young man.
“See, I can tell you’re being honest. Because I can read minds. Because I’m dead. Here’s the scoop: this guy is a killer. Sometimes, that’s not so bad. See, people can kill for lots of reasons, like their brain can’t help it, or it’s in the heat of passion, or self-defense. No, this guy’s one of the worst: he kills for greed. He’s been present at the scene of death of at least four women, all of them elderly widows, all of them worth at least half a million. He seduces them, the poor lonely wretches, takes their confidence, their sincerity, their trust, and turns it on them when they’re at their most vulnerable, just to collect the inheritance, insurance, whatever he can. And then he hides out in small shithole towns like this one. No offense, folks.
“And what would irk me, if I were you kind people, is that he’s doing pretty much the same thing to you: taking your small-town trust, and turning it around on you, just so that he can hide out for a year or so to escape suspicion. Yeah, that would tick me off.” Carsten leaned his shoulder against a wall, then recoiled and brushed years of dust and grime off his shirt. He paused for a moment and began tapping the butt of his gun against the faux-wood paneling.
“Think of it,” he said, “could be the guy at tending the counter at the gas station, or maybe a teller at the bank. You’ve probably seen him almost every day, never suspecting why he suddenly popped into town. In fact, you may not have even noticed. I’m sure that’s what he was counting on - your genuine good nature. He hasn’t been using you for long, just a few months, but he has been counting on you to accept him.” He tapped the gun harder, shaking debris from the ceiling tiles. “I’m sure you know who he is by now. Think about it. Just a for a moment stop and think about who the stranger could be.” Carsten glanced at the blank, rapt faces across the room, every pair of eyes caught on his, none looking around.
“No? For God’s sake, really? Really? I mean, look at you people! There’ve been the same family bloodlines circling this festering little town like a vortex for generations, spinning around nearly to a single point! You all look alike. Now,” he took a deep breath, “who doesn’t look like you?”
Suddenly the pale blue and green eyes beneath different shades of brown hair started to move, shifting from one person to the next, looking for that piece of the jigsaw puzzle that came from a different box. They came to a rest on a man standing next to the shuffleboard table by the door, brown-eyed and red-headed, struggling to put his baseball cap back on.
“Ah,” said Carsten, “I think some fine folks have earned their free pool. Good job!” He walked calmly over to the shuffleboard, and the man skittered to the door, yanking desperately at the handle. Carsten followed him, gun in hand, his reflection in the nighttime windows showing the crowd that he was smirking.
“You’re crazy! I’ve lived in this area all my life!” shouted the man.
“Harold,” said Carsten, “you don’t even share their accent. It’s like you’re not even trying.” He set the gun down on the window sill. “I think you should turn yourself in. It would look good in your trial, being overcome with the guilt. Juries like that. Maybe not ones from around here, but you haven’t done anything naughty here, have you?”
“Not yet,” said Harold, his shoulder pressed tightly against the door while the rest of his body huddled in on itself.
“Ooh, do you hear that, folks,” said Carsten as he turned to the crowd, pointing behind him at Harold, “he may have intentions of harming you yet!” Carsten twitched his head as he heard the gun slide from the window sill. He smiled. The gun went off.
Bits of Carsten’s upper abdomen cascaded onto several patrons as he flew forward onto the floor. People gasped as Harold aimed the gun at them, swinging the barrel from side to side as though he could maneuver one bullet to take them all out.
“I’m leaving now,” he said to them, “and I don’t want any of you bastards following me! I mean it! Okay, just stay here for five minutes, and everyone will be safe.” He tucked the gun into the front of his pants and grabbed a nearby pool cue, hefting it like a baseball bat. Harold took aim at the window and swung hard, coming up short and missing the glass but landing the cue firmly on the back of his head. He doubled over, but continued beating his skull until he crumpled, one knee at a time, to the floor.
Carsten picked himself up from the floor. “Whew! Who knew I had so much blood in me. Sorry about the mess.” He walked over to Harold and picked up the cue. “Now, who wants to be the hero?” No one moved or spoke. “Alright, again, I apologize for the theatrics, but this is almost over. Who wants to claim that they beat poor Harold over there and saved the rest of the pub? Any takers?”
A hand timidly stood above trucker caps somewhere in the middle of the group.
“Great. Cue’s going to be over here.” Carsten laid it against the shuffleboard. “Now, here’s the story: I walk in, say I recognize Harold, he pulls out a gun and - now the sequence is important, so don’t forget - he shoots me in the back, I turn around, and he shoots me in the head. Can you remember that?” All the heads lightly nodded. “Fantastic! I’ll just lie here on the floor and wait. Before I do, though, everyone: you did a great job! I’m very, very proud of you! You’ve made old Carsten here a very happy guy. I wish all my jobs could be this pleasant. Annie, you may now, finally, call the police.”
“You wanna pay your tab, first?” she asked. Carsten reluctantly fished out a twenty dollar bill and tossed it on the bar. Annie picked it up, nodded to him and walked to the phone at the end of the bar.
Carsten laid himself down on the filthy ground, not minding the stomped-out cigarettes and sticky splotches of spilled beer. “Yes sir, folks,” he said with a smile, “another job well done. This was a nice, easy one, but I really couldn’t have done it without you.Ha Thank you very much. I’m going to look dead now, but I’m only playing, so no one try to draw anything on my face, okay? Much appreciated.”
He closed his eyes and concentrated on the future, hoping his next assignment would be as simple as this night in Wilkie’s Pub. But, with a sigh of resignation, he knew it wouldn’t be.
---
Wilkie’s Pub on Rural Route 2 was tended by a toothless one hundred-year-old woman. The Pub could only be found by traversing the gravel road that ran one mile parallel to the interstate - a trip that was hindered by the pub being ten miles from any exit. Hidden behind dry brush and lifeless trees so strong that they must be zombies, one could find a line of parked pick-up trucks leading to the waterhole on any given night.
The farmers, local laborers and other assorted and bored yokels came from out the darkness to drink, throw darts, and shoot pool at Wilkie’s Pub. Annie, the toothless one hundred-year-old bartender always wore shirts whose necklines dove deep into the dusted and wrinkly cavern where her breasts had been some half century ago, but where now cigarette ash and spilled beer collected into a plot of flesh that looked like cracked magma.
As far as anyone knew, Annie worked there every day, perhaps never even sleeping. She raked a splintered mop over broken bottles and assorted trash every night until four in the morning, her twig-thin bones rattling along inside her sallow and moley skin, and yet she was seen every morning, fresh as a silk daisy, at nine o’clock to let the early birds in.
Wilkie’s Pub, hidden from the city folk and not listed in any yellow pages, temporarily held the souls of the men and women who sifted in and out of its doors night after night. These people knew of the place from their friends, who in turn knew of it from their friends, which is where the grapevine stopped as there weren’t that many people to be friends with out in the country. Everyone who drank there knew each other, and their eyes moved over the same butts and boobs through a thin blanket of cigarette smoke while the jukebox blared the same old time country songs in predictable succession.
Everything was always the same, until one night when the headlights shining through the front window weren’t pale yellow, but blue, like the new xenon-flavored lights they’d heard of in newspapers. A young man in a thin, black leather jacket walked through the door, causing Annie’s sunken and marbled eyes to bulge out for a moment, her mind grinding through the same thought as everyone else’s: who is he, and why doesn’t he look like any of our kin?
The chatter died down, and the smoke seemed to slink back from the stranger as he walked past the blue eyes under green John Deere caps. Spilled beer parted ways to leave a dry spot as he propped his arm up on the bar, and he smiled his straight white teeth at Annie. He turned to the rest of the crowd.
“Let me start,” he said, “by saying that I am dead. Could I get a beer, Annie?” and he winked at her, then placed a gun on the bar. “Because this is going to take a while.”
The crowd tried to push themselves back into the walls, and the ones that couldn’t hide behind someone else moved to the door, but the stranger spoke again.
“Please don’t go. There’s a lot that needs saying tonight, and I wouldn’t want any of you fine people to miss it. It’s actually kind of funny.” The dead bolt slammed into place, punctuating the statement with a harsh clang. “You’re gonna love it,” he said.
Annie looked at the man with angry eyes, not quivering like the rest of the people, and slammed the glass of beer on the counter, her skin flapping rudely at him. He thanked her with a nod and drew the pint to his lips, sucking a little liquid into his mouth and swishing it around his teeth. His eye twitched a little as he swallowed.
“You don’t have light beer, do you, Annie?” he asked.
“Huh?” she said, like he was speaking in an uppity tone just to embarrass her. The man chuckled and set the glass down.
“Okay, let’s see here, my lovelies. My name is Carsten. As you may be able to tell, I’m not from around here. It’s more than a beer-long tale to tell you where I come from, but just suffice it to say that I’m here right now, and that’s what counts. Oh my, do you all look so freaked out. If only you knew, you’d be laughing right now,” and he smiled as he picked the gun up off the bar and waved it in front of them. “What could it be? Did I say something to get you spooked?” A young woman in a red sweatshirt clutching her boyfriend’s arm nodded unconsciously at this.
“Yes dear?” said the stranger. The girl looked nervously around at the others. Her hair, a brown tint muddled from every family line in the area, waved like thin wire in front of her face as she shook her head. “Oh don’t be shy. What did I say to scare you?”
She stared at the ground for a moment, and then said softly, “You said you were dead.”
“Oh, right!” and the stranger smiled and shook his head while he took another sip of beer. “I did, didn’t I? I’m sure you don’t believe me. But I am dead. See?” He swung the gun to his right temple and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot sucked the breath from everyone in the room, especially those who were splattered with skull- and brain-laden blood. The man stood woozily, his eyes rolled into the back of his head while dark, thick blood rolled in syrupy rivers down his head and neck. The bystanders tried to blink away the gore to keep an eye on the body, which as of yet hadn’t fallen. Then his knees gave way, and he sunk to the floor, stopping just before his knees hit.
“Oh wait,” he murmured, and he leaned back and grabbed a wiping rag from off the bar and placed it under his knees. “I don’t want to bruise my kneecaps.” Then he slumped the rest of the way, and fell face first into the ground with a wet slap.
Everyone froze, no one looking at those soaked with brain matter, all eyes on this young man lying on the floor with a nearly-black stain forming around his head.
“Shit,” he mumbled into the ground. “I always forget to protect the face. Anyway, I think you get the point.” He placed a sturdy hand on the floor and shakily lifted his torso, light strands of blood connecting his head and the peeled linoleum. He looked around at the stony faces; some of them had changed their expression to anger, and one in particular, the man with the red sweatshirt-wearing girl at his arm, looked especially motivated to do something.
“There isn’t a thing in the world I’d like to do more,” said Carsten as he pushed himself onto his knees, “than to turn you inside-out right now and hang your intestines on your twitching carcass like Christmas lights on a tree. But I think we have different ideas of fun. Why don’t you calm down?” The man’s expression remained angry, but his fists relaxed enough to let Carsten know that he could proceed. He got up and wiggled a finger in the hole in his head, then glanced at it and wiped it on his shirt.
Somewhere in a corner of the bar a click echoed through the silence. An old rotary dial lazily clicked its way back from the nine. Carsten swung a bloodied finger in Annie’s direction, splattering some glasses and bottles behind the bar.
“Stop that right now, Annie!” he yelled. “Just give me a moment, and then you can make all the phone calls you want.” He heard the dial take another, much shorter turn from the one. “Annie, please stop.” He leveled the gun at the far end of the bar. “The curtain’s still up, and the show must go on, and any disturbances will be ushered out.” The whole crowd took in a collective gasp as though their similar DNA had been programmed to do just that. Somewhere in the midst of their mental pleading Annie heard their concern, and the receiver of the phone slammed down. A scarred claw of a hand grabbed the bar and soon she hoisted herself up, glaring intensely at Carsten. He lowered the gun and motioned her over.
“Okay folks,” he said, “I guess you all don’t appreciate dramatics as much as I’d hoped. No matter. While Annie is pouring me a fresh glass I’ll let you know why I’m here.” He started sitting down in empty space when a stool slid along the bumpy ground to connect with him. Another stool crawled over from the opposite end of the room, dragging some of his blood along the floor, and he propped his legs up on that. “I’m not totally clueless. I realize that this is kind of frightening, so I want to assure that I don’t mean any of you harm. Well, most of you, anyway. There are some here that no doubt deserve a lot of harm, you know, like the kind they used to do to black people in these parts not all that long ago. And there’s at least one man standing amongst you that very well might not be doing that harm for much longer. Whoever that is, if he would just step forward right now the rest of you can leave.” The dead bolt slid open, causing the rickety door to crack open a tad. The crowd made a break for the opening, but it slammed shut and locked before any of them could touch the handle.
Carsten sighed. “Where’s that beer, Annie?” She slid his blood-splattered glass toward him. “This one’s a little dirty, don’t you think?” he said. She shrugged, and Carsten smiled and took a sip. “Watch this,” he told Annie. A window near the door slid open, and a man lunged toward it. Before his hands made it outside the window crashed shut, nearly taking his fingers off. One by one various windows throughout the pub opened and shut, even ones that no one had been able to pry open for years, sending the crowd surging from one end of the pub to the another, each following the other in hopes that at least one person would make it out and set the rest free.
Annie grumbled at Carsten, unimpressed by his antics. “Folks! Knock it off!” she called out with a voice that was held together by congealed cigarette smoke. “Just let the man finish and get the hell out.” The crowd still bounded from window to window. Annie coughed and sneered at Carsten. “Look! When he’s gone it’s free pool for the rest of the night!” The crowd slowed a bit while windows around them slid up and down.
“And free darts?” asked a voice.
Annie looked at Carsten. “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” Carsten nodded. “Yes, free darts, too,” she said to the now quiet mass. They all shuffled back to Carsten, breathing heavily from all the dashing around and inhaling nothing but days of old smoke.
“Thanks, Annie,” said Carsten. He hopped off the stool and looked each of them in the eye, moving from person to person, putting his bloodied face close to theirs, stepping quickly and silently like one of the wolves that lived behind the pub. “You know what I’m doing right now?” he asked to no one in particular as he studied a plump lady in her twenties who looked and smelled like she was in her fifties. “I’m reading your minds. I can do that, you know, because I’m dead. And I am going to find out which one of you is a liar. You see, I’ve been tracking this person for a while now. I’ve been all over the state looking, and now I’ve found him. I know he’s right here, tonight. Do you want to know what he’s done?” Carsten moved in close to a scrawny young man with a goatee, whose adam’s apple darted quickly up and down while he contemplated answering.
“S-sure,” said the young man.
“See, I can tell you’re being honest. Because I can read minds. Because I’m dead. Here’s the scoop: this guy is a killer. Sometimes, that’s not so bad. See, people can kill for lots of reasons, like their brain can’t help it, or it’s in the heat of passion, or self-defense. No, this guy’s one of the worst: he kills for greed. He’s been present at the scene of death of at least four women, all of them elderly widows, all of them worth at least half a million. He seduces them, the poor lonely wretches, takes their confidence, their sincerity, their trust, and turns it on them when they’re at their most vulnerable, just to collect the inheritance, insurance, whatever he can. And then he hides out in small shithole towns like this one. No offense, folks.
“And what would irk me, if I were you kind people, is that he’s doing pretty much the same thing to you: taking your small-town trust, and turning it around on you, just so that he can hide out for a year or so to escape suspicion. Yeah, that would tick me off.” Carsten leaned his shoulder against a wall, then recoiled and brushed years of dust and grime off his shirt. He paused for a moment and began tapping the butt of his gun against the faux-wood paneling.
“Think of it,” he said, “could be the guy at tending the counter at the gas station, or maybe a teller at the bank. You’ve probably seen him almost every day, never suspecting why he suddenly popped into town. In fact, you may not have even noticed. I’m sure that’s what he was counting on - your genuine good nature. He hasn’t been using you for long, just a few months, but he has been counting on you to accept him.” He tapped the gun harder, shaking debris from the ceiling tiles. “I’m sure you know who he is by now. Think about it. Just a for a moment stop and think about who the stranger could be.” Carsten glanced at the blank, rapt faces across the room, every pair of eyes caught on his, none looking around.
“No? For God’s sake, really? Really? I mean, look at you people! There’ve been the same family bloodlines circling this festering little town like a vortex for generations, spinning around nearly to a single point! You all look alike. Now,” he took a deep breath, “who doesn’t look like you?”
Suddenly the pale blue and green eyes beneath different shades of brown hair started to move, shifting from one person to the next, looking for that piece of the jigsaw puzzle that came from a different box. They came to a rest on a man standing next to the shuffleboard table by the door, brown-eyed and red-headed, struggling to put his baseball cap back on.
“Ah,” said Carsten, “I think some fine folks have earned their free pool. Good job!” He walked calmly over to the shuffleboard, and the man skittered to the door, yanking desperately at the handle. Carsten followed him, gun in hand, his reflection in the nighttime windows showing the crowd that he was smirking.
“You’re crazy! I’ve lived in this area all my life!” shouted the man.
“Harold,” said Carsten, “you don’t even share their accent. It’s like you’re not even trying.” He set the gun down on the window sill. “I think you should turn yourself in. It would look good in your trial, being overcome with the guilt. Juries like that. Maybe not ones from around here, but you haven’t done anything naughty here, have you?”
“Not yet,” said Harold, his shoulder pressed tightly against the door while the rest of his body huddled in on itself.
“Ooh, do you hear that, folks,” said Carsten as he turned to the crowd, pointing behind him at Harold, “he may have intentions of harming you yet!” Carsten twitched his head as he heard the gun slide from the window sill. He smiled. The gun went off.
Bits of Carsten’s upper abdomen cascaded onto several patrons as he flew forward onto the floor. People gasped as Harold aimed the gun at them, swinging the barrel from side to side as though he could maneuver one bullet to take them all out.
“I’m leaving now,” he said to them, “and I don’t want any of you bastards following me! I mean it! Okay, just stay here for five minutes, and everyone will be safe.” He tucked the gun into the front of his pants and grabbed a nearby pool cue, hefting it like a baseball bat. Harold took aim at the window and swung hard, coming up short and missing the glass but landing the cue firmly on the back of his head. He doubled over, but continued beating his skull until he crumpled, one knee at a time, to the floor.
Carsten picked himself up from the floor. “Whew! Who knew I had so much blood in me. Sorry about the mess.” He walked over to Harold and picked up the cue. “Now, who wants to be the hero?” No one moved or spoke. “Alright, again, I apologize for the theatrics, but this is almost over. Who wants to claim that they beat poor Harold over there and saved the rest of the pub? Any takers?”
A hand timidly stood above trucker caps somewhere in the middle of the group.
“Great. Cue’s going to be over here.” Carsten laid it against the shuffleboard. “Now, here’s the story: I walk in, say I recognize Harold, he pulls out a gun and - now the sequence is important, so don’t forget - he shoots me in the back, I turn around, and he shoots me in the head. Can you remember that?” All the heads lightly nodded. “Fantastic! I’ll just lie here on the floor and wait. Before I do, though, everyone: you did a great job! I’m very, very proud of you! You’ve made old Carsten here a very happy guy. I wish all my jobs could be this pleasant. Annie, you may now, finally, call the police.”
“You wanna pay your tab, first?” she asked. Carsten reluctantly fished out a twenty dollar bill and tossed it on the bar. Annie picked it up, nodded to him and walked to the phone at the end of the bar.
Carsten laid himself down on the filthy ground, not minding the stomped-out cigarettes and sticky splotches of spilled beer. “Yes sir, folks,” he said with a smile, “another job well done. This was a nice, easy one, but I really couldn’t have done it without you.Ha Thank you very much. I’m going to look dead now, but I’m only playing, so no one try to draw anything on my face, okay? Much appreciated.”
He closed his eyes and concentrated on the future, hoping his next assignment would be as simple as this night in Wilkie’s Pub. But, with a sigh of resignation, he knew it wouldn’t be.