Ireland. The voice he shared with Max Bartlett sounded to his ears like fingernails on a blackboard.
You could hear a pin drop inside the once noisy saloon the moment his presence was noticed by the regulars. All eyes faced him, yet no one uttered a word. The Slaugh couldn’t tell if they felt his power or if they were sizing Max up for their next meal. Whatever they had planned, he decided to let it play out. He was curious to see what type of men this brave new world had produced. Would they be better than the rowdy bunch he had known in times past? He suspected that these so-called modern men would prove themselves to be not only weak of will, but also weak of body. While he hoped to be proven wrong, the Slaugh wasn’t sure he would find what he needed at McGinley’s Pub.
Max made his way casually down the three steps to the floor, peanut shells crunching beneath his heels. The way he moved, it was like he didn’t have a care in the world. As he approached the bar, a young dandy wearing clothes that cost more than some of the bar’s patrons earned in a year whistled an old Irish folk tune from the homeland.
“I’ll have an Irish Whiskey. Neat, and a chaser of Murphy’s Stout.” he told the bartender, an older gent whose name tag announced that his name was Bob and that it was his pleasure to serve you. The Slaugh tossed a wad of Max’s cash on the bar. “Make sure it’s the good stuff,” he added with as much menace as his host’s voice allowed, which, he was the first to admit, wasn’t much.
Apparently, it was enough in this case. With unsteady hand, the bartender nodded and pulled a nearly full bottle from beneath the bar. He smiled when the bartender began to pour and he tossed back the sweet elixir as soon as the man finished. The alcohol burned all the way down. It was a wonderful sensation. He immediately followed the whiskey by quaffing down the entire pint of cool draught ale. He slammed the empty glass back down on the polished oak with a satisfying THUNK! “Another.”
“Hey,” one of the mutts standing nearby said, finally finding his nerve. “Hey! You! This is our place, ya wanker. What are ya doin’ here?” He laughed, turned back to his smiling friends to show his manliness. They egged him on.
It was all the Slaugh could do not to laugh at the foolish gowl who believed himself a man worthy of speaking with such impunity to one of his betters.
“I said what’cha doing in here, eh, rich boy?” the idiot said again, louder this time.
As before, Max ignored him and ordered another drink.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” He clapped a hand on Max’s shoulder.
Whatever reaction the idiot had been expecting, he got the opposite. Moving faster than the mutt’s eye could follow, Max spun around on the barstool, grabbed the man’s arm in his grip, and broke it in two as easily as if snapping a twig. The crack of breaking bone echoed through the still quiet bar.
Seconds later, the only sound he heard was the mutt’s screams as he cradled the now worthless arm dangling at his side.
Ignoring the man’s pained cries, Max turned back to the bar. “One more,” he told the bartender as if nothing had happened.
The bartender’s complexion had been pale to begin with, but he was now three shades whiter since Max sat down at the bar. A tiny quiver ran through him as he lifted the bottle.
“Why don’t you just leave the bottle and I’ll pour my own,” Max said politely.
Unable to find his voice, the bartender nodded and took two steps backward, never taking his eyes off the man sitting at the bar.
“That’s far enough, Bob” Max said as he examined the bottle.
The bartender stopped as though frozen in place.
“It is Bob, right?” he said, wagging a finger toward the nametag without actually looking at the scared bartender.
Bob nodded vigorously until he realized that the man at the bar wasn’t looking in his direction. He added a simple, “uh huh.”
Max shook his head.
You could hear a pin drop inside the once noisy saloon the moment his presence was noticed by the regulars. All eyes faced him, yet no one uttered a word. The Slaugh couldn’t tell if they felt his power or if they were sizing Max up for their next meal. Whatever they had planned, he decided to let it play out. He was curious to see what type of men this brave new world had produced. Would they be better than the rowdy bunch he had known in times past? He suspected that these so-called modern men would prove themselves to be not only weak of will, but also weak of body. While he hoped to be proven wrong, the Slaugh wasn’t sure he would find what he needed at McGinley’s Pub.
Max made his way casually down the three steps to the floor, peanut shells crunching beneath his heels. The way he moved, it was like he didn’t have a care in the world. As he approached the bar, a young dandy wearing clothes that cost more than some of the bar’s patrons earned in a year whistled an old Irish folk tune from the homeland.
“I’ll have an Irish Whiskey. Neat, and a chaser of Murphy’s Stout.” he told the bartender, an older gent whose name tag announced that his name was Bob and that it was his pleasure to serve you. The Slaugh tossed a wad of Max’s cash on the bar. “Make sure it’s the good stuff,” he added with as much menace as his host’s voice allowed, which, he was the first to admit, wasn’t much.
Apparently, it was enough in this case. With unsteady hand, the bartender nodded and pulled a nearly full bottle from beneath the bar. He smiled when the bartender began to pour and he tossed back the sweet elixir as soon as the man finished. The alcohol burned all the way down. It was a wonderful sensation. He immediately followed the whiskey by quaffing down the entire pint of cool draught ale. He slammed the empty glass back down on the polished oak with a satisfying THUNK! “Another.”
“Hey,” one of the mutts standing nearby said, finally finding his nerve. “Hey! You! This is our place, ya wanker. What are ya doin’ here?” He laughed, turned back to his smiling friends to show his manliness. They egged him on.
It was all the Slaugh could do not to laugh at the foolish gowl who believed himself a man worthy of speaking with such impunity to one of his betters.
“I said what’cha doing in here, eh, rich boy?” the idiot said again, louder this time.
As before, Max ignored him and ordered another drink.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” He clapped a hand on Max’s shoulder.
Whatever reaction the idiot had been expecting, he got the opposite. Moving faster than the mutt’s eye could follow, Max spun around on the barstool, grabbed the man’s arm in his grip, and broke it in two as easily as if snapping a twig. The crack of breaking bone echoed through the still quiet bar.
Seconds later, the only sound he heard was the mutt’s screams as he cradled the now worthless arm dangling at his side.
Ignoring the man’s pained cries, Max turned back to the bar. “One more,” he told the bartender as if nothing had happened.
The bartender’s complexion had been pale to begin with, but he was now three shades whiter since Max sat down at the bar. A tiny quiver ran through him as he lifted the bottle.
“Why don’t you just leave the bottle and I’ll pour my own,” Max said politely.
Unable to find his voice, the bartender nodded and took two steps backward, never taking his eyes off the man sitting at the bar.
“That’s far enough, Bob” Max said as he examined the bottle.
The bartender stopped as though frozen in place.
“It is Bob, right?” he said, wagging a finger toward the nametag without actually looking at the scared bartender.
Bob nodded vigorously until he realized that the man at the bar wasn’t looking in his direction. He added a simple, “uh huh.”
Max shook his head.
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