Musings - A collection of random short stories with no point

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Musings - A collection of random short stories with no point

#1 Post by Bellhead »

Yeah, I don't really know what I'm going to end up doing with this. But once in a while, I have an idea for a story, or even just a simple plotline, and I end up just walking in circles telling it to myself. So I'll post it here, just for kicks.

Also, I'm terrible with names and titles. Feel free to offer suggestions.

Also also, warning, kinda sad.

~

A deadpan worker finishes yet another long, monotonous day of miscellaneous tasks. Though long, the days themselves were not difficult, so he often devoted himself to the job, arriving early and staying later than anyone else, if for no other reason than sheer absolute boredom. He hummed to himself, as he walked through the darkening warehouse, eyeing the seemingly endless rows of boxes and crates. Having stayed late so consistently for so long, it had unofficially become his responsibility to perform the final security check of the night, and make sure each and every door was locked before he left.

Walking down one of the longer isles, he comes to a slow stop, and ceases his humming, focusing on his surroundings. Something's off. He turned, looked around, and seeing nothing, closed his eyes and listened. Deep within the silence of the warehouse, he heard something, made clearer by the deafening silence around him. He instinctively began walking in that direction, his footsteps almost silent on the smooth concrete. With his eyes adjusted, he needed no light, though some still shone in the furthest corners, painting a dull hue from the ceiling. The noise.. it was close. A few rows, maybe. He stopped again, and listened. Breathing. One person, breath catching. Sadness. Two isles, maybe three. Left.

He walked slowly now, keeping his feet quiet as he traced the noise to its origin; a boy sitting on an empty pallet, arms crossed on his knees, head buried. The worker made some effort to pronounce his footsteps, so as not to startle the youth in the darkness, but he looked up in fear anyway, frozen in place. He had clearly been crying, though he looked a little old for that. The worker, with his deadpan glare and flat voice, knelt down to him, and spoke.

"You know, we're closed. You're going to have to go home."

The boy's face turned even more pale, if that was possible, and he turned away. It was then that the worker noticed his clothing; it was the office department uniform.

"My nickname here is Oddball," he said. "Call me Odds. Got a name, kid?" The boy softened, almost imperceptibly, and slowly rose his head a mere fraction of an inch. He spoke flatly, clearly hiding the catch in his voice.

"Everyone upstairs calls me Rookie. Just call me Rook."

"You new here?"

"Few days. Going on a week. Best place I've ever worked." Odds paused in thought. It wasn't the job.

"Glad you like it. But I'm locking doors, so you'll need to go home. The cops get called if the motion sensors go off." Rook raised his head, and turned to face him, only to quickly look away, stiffening once again.

"I," he began, visibly shaking. "Don't.." Odds looked him over, waiting for his response. "Please.." A few more, and you'll have a whole thought. "Don't make me go b-back. I c-can't. Please."

Odds stared, his face expressionless. Moments stretched uncomfortably long as the two sat perfectly still in the silence of the warehouse. After far too long, Odds stood back up, turned slowly, and walked off into the darkness. Rook just sat alone, and buried his face once again. After several more moments alone with his thoughts, he heard the sound of a door closing, and noticed a glow from several rows away, moving towards him. Odds. He should just leave me.

Odds entered the row, holding an old electric camping lantern, and carrying something in his other arm. As he approached, Rook noticed that it was a milk crate, and he was using it to carry something, but looked away before he could see what it was. Odds set down the lantern in the middle of the isle, and set the milk crate up as a small chair. He pulled from it, two bottles of chocolate milk, damp with condensation, and took his seat beside Rook. Taking one in his hand, he plopped it on the ground, with just enough force to startle the boy. Looking up, he saw Odds, opening another, and saw where he'd placed the unopened bottle on the floor. He saw it, and turned away.

Odds looked at him, then at the bottle, and back. He picked up the bottle again, gently whacked Rook on the arm, and put it down again. Turning his resting deadpan stare into an angry one, he focused on Rook's hidden eyes, and met them. if only for a moment, then turned away, to slowly sip his own. Rook slowly reached for the bottle, keeping the corner of his eye out for any recognition from Odds, and proceeded to open it. It was cold. Comfortably so. Cracking the cap open, he raised it to his lips, and let the refreshing liquid fill his senses. His eyes closed instinctively, and he slowly downed the whole bottle without a breath. He turned, and saw Odds had done the same. They looked in each other's direction, just shy of making eye contact, and Odds began to stand. He turned to Rook, offering a hand, which he accepted completely devoid of thought. He mindlessly handed his empty bottle off, and stood, expressionless in the dark isle while Odds picked up the crate and lantern, leading him away.

But Rook stopped, just short of the end of the row of crates, and a moment later, so did Odds. He turned his head slightly to the right, as if to speak, but no words were heard. With his carrying, he freed a hand, and snapped his fingers, pointing to the ground beside him. Rook obeyed, his mind growing more blank by the minute. Odds led him, three steps ahead, through the darkened isles and rows of shelves, locking the doors, returning the lantern and crate, and discarding the bottles in a recycle bin. Leading him outside, Odds locked the door behind them, and the two wordlessly made their way to a rusted junk heap of a car. Odds snapped again, and pointed to the passenger side.

They rode in silence down the now deserted streets, until pulling into a driveway next to a small, dilapidated house. Odds got out, and leaned in to look at the frightened Rook, still buckled in.

"Come on," he said. "Out." Rook followed, and they walked into the dark building. Lighting a candle for some dim lighting, Odds led him to a small room with no door, and a dusty bed. Even in the dark, he could see Rook's pale face.

"You'll sleep here. There's pop-tarts on the counter in the kitchen, bathroom's the next door on left. I wake up at 4:45, I'll wake you at 5, if you're not already up. Miss me leaving, and you're walking." With that, Odds turned to walk off. Summoning every bit of courage he had, Rook called out to him.

"What's going on here?" he asked meekly. Odds stopped, and turned back, his deadpan face looking far more menacing under the glow of the candle, even more so when he cracked a slight smile.

"You've been having trouble at home. Bruises on your arms, you walk with a limp. Calm, obedient, but terrified and depressed." Rook moved to object, but Odds continued. "You show signs of malnutrition, and your sight in the dark tells me you don't get much time outside. You live here now. This is your room. We'll deal with the rest later. Sleep while you can, nothing'll happen to you here." Odds blew out the candle, and walked off down the hall. "Sleep well, Rook."

Rook returned to the room, feeling his way to the bed, and climbed in, removing his shoes and shirt along the way. A bed. With covers, and a pillow. My bed. He looked toward the doorway, his eyes having adjusted just enough to see the door propped against the wall next to it. Deadpan creepy weirdo. Closing his eyes, he quickly found comfort under the heavy covers, and smiled. Thank you.

~

There may or may not be several more of these shorts. We'll see what my mind comes up with.
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Re: Musings - A collection of random short stories with no point

#2 Post by Technic[Bot] »

Interesting, I really like you to the point, serious and a bit blunt style.

I would offer names but i am personally terrible at naming anything. I rarely write but when i do i go out of my way to not name anyone
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Re: Musings - A collection of random short stories with no point

#3 Post by Bellhead »

Heh, been there, done that. Hence Oddball and Rookie.

And thanks for the compliment. Personally, I've always liked how well-written deadpan characters interact with emotional and delicate situations; showing extreme care through actions, while still appearing to be rude, and almost belligerent, and often times, terrifying. It's been my interpretation that some people need a pretty heavy knock to get them out of their shell. If they've built it up thick enough, not much else will work, certainly not as quickly.
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Re: Musings - A collection of random short stories with no point

#4 Post by Warrl »

The first paragraph was a difficult read - a lot of description that told me nothing.

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Re: Musings - A collection of random short stories with no point

#5 Post by Bellhead »

Yeah, I never got good at beginning a story, so that tends to happen. Any suggestions for it?
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Re: Musings - A collection of random short stories with no point

#6 Post by Bellhead »

Here's another one. Something that I thought of back in high school, based off another idea I had in middle school. *cracks knuckles* Let's see if I can make this sound like a decent story...


Jennifer sat in a chair by the window of her bedroom, leaning on the sill. Time never stopped, and neither did they. But sooner or later, everyone's luck runs out. The question was always the same: Just how far can you push an already broken limit?

A gentle knock at the door shook her from her thoughts. She straightened her brown hair over her ear, and turned.

"Sweetie, are you ready? The taxi should be here any minute." Her mother's words were sad, but hopeful. Jennifer had told her she was going to college, and had the piles of forged paperwork to prove it. The packing was already done, and mailed off to an address that didn't exist.

"Yeah, mom," she replied, opening the door. Her mother was of slightly shorter stature, but bore the same hair, and similar warm brown eyes. Together, they walked downstairs. "I'll be focusing on my studies for a while, so I'll probably be out of contact for a while." She tried to hide her fears of everything that was going on... Of all the lies she had to tell. Betraying such trust was not something she ever wanted to have to do, but now, she had no choice. Having even the slightest clue would put her in danger.

"That's alright, sweetie," she replied. "I'll keep the phone handy. Just remember, no matter what happens, the door's always open." Her breath caught, and she fought back a tear. "Don't forget to remember me."

Jenny smiled, and hugged her mother as the taxi pulled up outside with a short toot of the horn.

"Love you."

"Love you, too."

"Have fun?"

"Hah. I'll do what I can." Jenny sighed as she stepped down the walkway, and added, "I'll miss you."

With the door closed, the cab began to move. Never before had watching her mother wave goodbye brought such dread. But now she was out of danger, whatever that was worth. She leaned up toward the driver, and gave him a new address.

"That's not the way to the station, ma'am," the driver replied.

"Just take me here. I'll pay extra, just don't ask questions." The driver glanced back, confused, but her cold glare shot his eyes back to the road.

Several minutes of driving later, they arrived at a small, single-story house with a small garage next to it. He let her out, accepting the rather generous tip she offered, and drove off. She shouldered her bag, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

"It's me. Lemme in." The door opened, revealing a slightly taller man, dressed in what could only be described as hiking gear, with everything but the large backpack that sat on the floor a few feet away. She hurried inside, not even looking him in the eye. Still, he smiled, chuckled to himself, and shut the door.

"It's time, isn't it?" he asked. She paused, and her posture sank. "I figured. Car's fueled and ready, plan's already made." She turned her head, but only made it a quarter turn before freezing again, fighting back her feelings once more. She took a breath to speak, but not before there was a loud pounding on the door.

"We don't need a whole squad for this," groaned a man in a dark suit.

"Doesn't matter. The higher-ups said we needed the whole squad for one little girl, so we're taking the whole squad for one little girl."

"Waste of people if you ask me." They both nodded, glancing back to the small group of men in suits behind them, slowly spreading around the house. Just then, the door opened, stopped by the security chain.

"Ah, the Order pays me a visit. To what to I owe the pleasure?"

"Sir, please move aside. We have reason to believe there is a fugitive in your house." The man sighed, shut the door, released the chain, and swung it open.

"I'm in a bit of a rush," he explained. "Just lock up when you leave, I'll be back in a few days." With that, he grabbed his pack, left the door wide open, walked toward the garage, and whistled. "Abby! Here girl!"

In a flash, a dark brown dog ran outside, nearly plowing into the two men on the doorstep before running to the man's side, tail wagging furiously. The men eyed them with suspicion, but neither of them looked back.

The detached garage held various small tools, a workbench with a vice, and a well-worn 1970 Dodge Challenger. He opened the passenger door, and the dog bounded in. Looking toward the men at the doorstep, and the few that had gathered to watch him leave, he waved, and drove off, leaving several of them confused. It was quite unusual to walk away from an Order inquiry, even if they didn't have any official power.

Having rounded a corner, he reached over, and petted the dog on the head. "Good girl. Want some scritches?" The dog froze and looked back over with an angry scowl, enough to make him turn back to the road with a chuckle.

"You're the worst," she replied. By the time he looked over, Jennifer was well on her way to being fully dressed, and clipped her seatbelt on. "I warned you not to do that."

He laughed again, but kept the smile this time. "You forgot the collar, Abby." Blushing slightly, she removed the heavy leather collar bearing the brass name tag, and tossed it into the back seat.

"No turning back now," she mumbled to herself. "Are you sure about this? You're giving everything up to live on the run with something like me." She was still unable to look him in the eye, but she knew he was smiling.

"You say that like I still had something left to lose." He adjusted the mirror, and his expression turned dark. "You're buckled, right?" he asked, his tone serious.

"Yeah, why?"

"You'd best hang on. We've got company." She turned, and saw the line of black cars heading towards them. "The Order must have sent them. I guess the grunts they sent after us 'needed to know'. This might get rough."

Jennifer tightened her seatbelt, and held the door grip tight. "Now or never," she mumbled, eyeing the cars quickly approaching. She gathered her courage, and looked directly at him. "Run like hell." His face cracked an evil smile, and his hand fell to the gearshift.

"Years of maintenance, modification, fabrication and tuning have led me to this moment," he said, with an unusual amount of conviction. "Now let's see what you can do!" His feet danced on the pedals, and his hand expertly threw the shifter. In an instant, both were thrown against the seats as a glorious roar filled the cabin, launching them toward the horizon.

Jennifer closed her eyes, and silently prayed. They did not have far to go before the Order was unable to follow, but what happened after that was not the problem. We'll make it. We have to. I won't become one of their damned experiments. She looked over at the gauges in hopes they would give her some semblance of hope they had a chance, and saw each one completely dead. Her glance did not go unnoticed by the now stoic driver.

"They must have already fired the pulse." He cracked a slight smile, and added, "That won't work on this. You can't fry the computer if there is no computer." A sudden shift sent Jennifer back into her seat; her adrenaline keeping her from fainting. We WILL make it. Or we'll die proud.

Many miles away, an old man slammed a closed fist onto a desk of surveillance photos. "How could you let this happen?!" he yelled. Two men in dark suits stood in front of him, bowing slightly. "I want that girl! Bring her to me!"

"Sir, we can't," replied one of them. "The team sent to retrieve them failed, and the EMP had no effect on the getaway car. If they make it to the hills--"

"I KNOW what will happen! Are you daft?! JUST STOP THEM!" he yelled, slamming his desk once again before falling into a coughing fit in his chair. The men rushed to his side, but he waved them away. "She's one of Them. We can't let her get away." They all paused for a moment, and the phone rang. The old man put it on speaker, and answered in a firm but somewhat calmer tone. "For your sake, you had better be calling with some good news." The line remained silent for several seconds. "Well?"

"They.. they got away, sir. They're in the hills now. We can't follow them." He hung up, and slumped back into his chair.

"Great," he groaned. "Just great."
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Re: Musings - A collection of random short stories with no point

#7 Post by Technic[Bot] »

Interesting to say the least.

Like the style Fast paced, action packed everything moving and no time to explain and a but rough around the edges. But i like it! You also picked my interest.

Occasionally hard to follow who is doing/saying what but i have same issue when writing dialogue.
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Re: Musings - A collection of random short stories with no point

#8 Post by Bellhead »

I think I'll call this one "Aftermath". Just another "Oh hey, I think that might sound cool" moment. We'll see. I still ad-lib as I write... :potatoes:

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The end of the fight was long overdue. The first shot was heard from nearly every corner of the walled city, shortly before sunrise, but two full days had passed since, and those who survived had left the battlefield. The ground lay littered with the battered machines of war, torn to pieces and strewn as far as the eye could see in every direction. Now the sun was setting, and tensions rose again. Night was the best cover for a sneak attack, and an army is always weakest after a prolonged battle.

But time would pass, and the long night would give rise to a new day; one with quiet skies, silent guns, and engines lying still in the cool morning air. With anti-aircraft weapons reaching their peak, planes were all but obsolete, and heavy military land vehicles once again took the stage. Now, though, the dozen or so Brutes, as they were known by those familiar with them, sat in various states of demolition from the days prior. Four stayed on alert in each of the four cardinal directions, while rotating teams of mechanics still worked tirelessly to revive monstrous machines pushed well past their breaking point.

In a watchtower high above the city, several men and women adorned in military garb sat at a table, overlooking a map, and a list of casualties, both friend and foe. The stress had largely been relieved after a calm night, an hour's sleep and a hot cup of coffee.

"Something just wasn't right, I'm telling you," one noted, her exhaustion almost covered by her confidence. The others sat with steepled fingers, all looking at the map, marked with different colors to show the course of the battle. "We should have been destroyed. They're smarter than to use their troops like they did."

"Maybe," another remarked beside her. "Maybe they have a new guy in charge?" He looked again at the map, noting the several dead zones where enemy presence had been particularly thin. "If they had hit us simultaneously, we definitely would have been wiped out. Do you think this was political? An intentional sacrifice?"

"No... That wouldn't make sense," she replied. "They sent more than seventy percent of their forces at us. If they intended to drum up support, having an army that size get pummeled isn't exactly the best way to do it."

The sun rose higher as the five of them continued their silent pondering, and as a box on the table cast an odd shadow, the eyes on the young man in the corner began to grow wide. His hands rushed across the map, following the dead zones through the battle.

"Find something?"

"I.. think I did, actually. Look here," he said as he pointed to a few zones, color coded for their time slot. "Here too. And here. All around this time, these zones were left almost untouched." Moving to another corner with a different time slot, he noted again. "Now look here, four hours later. Had there been a squad then and there, they would have broken through the wall." The others leaned in, and each caught on to the pattern he saw. Each time they would have been overrun, one critical enemy squad was consistently delayed by more than two hours, and defenses had been readied in the area.

"This one," noted an aged woman with a faded uniform. "I was there. The bulk of the defenses had been called to here," she said, pointing to an area dense with one particular color. "That whole zone was left almost completely unguarded for almost two hours, yet they held, without issue." She stood back up, staring again. "Wait a minute..."

She pointed to each dead zone, noting the presence of soldiers in a different color at each one, indicating several hours difference. As her gaze narrowed, the others caught on.

"Their forces were delayed!" one called, the realization swift and sudden. The old woman nodded. "That would mean.." His voice trailed off, as he got a larger map, and looked at the terrain. "They all went through this pass, here," he said pointing. "Something in that valley slowed them down. A LOT. And by the looks of their numbers, they'd been dealt one hell of a blow in the meantime."

An older gentleman sat at the south side of the map, and scratched his chin. He called for a messenger, and explained what they'd figured out. Pointing out a few points on both maps, he gave his orders.

"I want you to gather a scouting crew. Have them take a Brute, with a Variety team. head to that valley, tracing the enemy troops' pathing. If our hunch is right, somewhere in that valley you should find something impossible to miss." The messenger nodded, but before he could leave, the man spoke again. "There's no telling what you'll find out there. Tell the crew just.. well.." He sighed. "Tell them to prepare themselves."

********************

"Any idea what we're actually looking for out here?" asked a woman sitting atop the Brute's main gun port, telescope in hand.

"Not a clue," replied a man in the corner, cleaning a sniper rifle. "We were given some rather ominous orders."

"Heh, yeah. 'Follow the enemy's tracks to this secluded valley where a bunch of enemy soldiers didn't survive. Good luck, by the way.' Seriously, what the hell did we sign up for this time?"

"Enough," the driver huffed. "Just keep your eyes peeled. The map dot's just ahead."

As they crested a small hill scarred with tank tread ruts and tire tracks, they were met with a grisly sight; a field, as far as the eye could see, filled cliff to cliff with shrapnel, scrap metal, craters and a seemingly endless sea of torn armor plating. The driver stopped, and the crew began surveying the wreckage. There was a clear path through, with piles of wreckage plowed to either side of a makeshift road. The enemy had won, and they still had a sizeable amount of troops left. Not suprising, with how many had made it to the battle, but the carnage was still unreal.

Rifle in hand, the man started at his left, sweeping right, while the woman started at the right.

"Found something you might be interested in," she called, as the others turned to her, and looked in that direction. The Brute began moving again, and began navigating the wreckage. "278-ish degrees, roughly a click, I'd say? Does anyone else see what I do?"

"That's one hell of a crater," the sniper noted.

"I wasn't talking about that. Well, I was, but look in the middle of it."

****************************

The Brute pulled onto the rim of the enormous crater, and its passengers slowly climbed out, securing anchor lines and making their way down the slope. In the center of the crater, perched on a small rock formation, sat a solid steel frame, complete with engine block and a moderate pile of steel plating. The shape was unmistakeable, though very badly bent. It was a Brute. Or rather, what was left of one. Looking in the cabin, smashed to pieces and long since burned to ash, one scout closed his eyes and turned away.

"You alright? Anyone in there?"

The kid nodded.

Steeling her courage, the spotter leaned in. The driver's seat was burnt to dust and lay empty, but the floor told a different story. Still mashed into the gas pedal were the bones of a foot, still holding the throttle wide open. She backed out, and looked toward the engine. The linkage was gone, but the throttle plates were well and truely frozen open. She backed away, and called the others to her.

"This was driven by a Runner. Best of the best. And they probably weren't alone, at least in the beginning." She looked back at the disintegrated frame behind her, choosing her words.

Brutes were, by all accounts, nearly unstoppable in a short battle. In a long, drawn-out conflict, a single one could turn even the lowest odds favorable, with a good pilot and enough munitions. Twelve of these beasts protected a city for 36 hours straight, with almost non-existant support, against seemingly endless armies.

"By the carnage we see around us, this one was working solo." She opened the battle map the messenger had brought, and looked at the timeframes of the dead zones. "This Brute must have run full-tilt for over 28 straight hours to do all of this, and they would have been packed with ammo when they started. It takes a special kind of nutjob to even attempt something like this, the luck of the Gods to even have the chance, and the complete blessing of Murphy to not die from one single round igniting prematurely."

She turned back to the wreckage, looking closely around the engine block.

"147," the scout replied. "You were looking for the production number, right?"

"Yeah. I spent some time memo- Did you say 147?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Special kind of nutjob," she chuckled to herself. "Unit 147 was manned by a rookie crew of two Runners. Their training was supposed to end next week." She looked out across the carnage, and walked back to the wreckage, laying a hand first on the dashboard through the windshield frame, then on the valve cover, and bowed her head in silent prayer.

"Ya did good, kids," she said, tears forming in her eyes as she fought them back. "We survived because of you. Tens of thousands of lives were saved by the razor thin margin you gave your lives to give us." She smiled, letting a tear roll down her cheek. "We never would have made it without you. Ya did good."

The others formed a half circle around her, kneeling and bowing their heads. With one final bow, one hand on the dash and the other on the engine, she said her final statement.

"Rest in peace, for your job is now complete. Rest without regrets. You've earned it."

One by one, they climbed back out of the crater, and began the long trip back. Not a word was spoken for the entire trip, and even at their debriefing with the leaders, only the spotter could muster the courage to tell the tale of carnage and destruction.

Time would remember those Runners fondly, and would award them the highest honor that could be bestowed.

The wreckage that covered the fields would be cleaned, and grass would start to grow again.

Wildlife would return.

Machines would be rebuilt.

Memorials would be forged of the finest materials.

But no matter how hard they tried,
no matter how long they lived,
no matter how much good they did...

It still cost the lives of two genuine heroes.
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Re: Musings - A collection of random short stories with no point

#9 Post by Bellhead »

My father was watching Cheers, and it gave me an idea. A couple, actually, but here's one for now.

****************

The city itself was a generally good place to live, for those with a good background. But for those without, it was a different monster altogether. Police walk the streets in the good part of town as a part of the community, but on the west side, they rode in armored cars as people watched in fear. After all, nobody had clean hands here.

In one of the more active districts deep in the west side, a bar sat nestled between a couple of buildings, its appearance worn and ragged as the sounds of life and conversation drifted out with dim light through cracked windows and a heavy wooden door. Inside, several booths lined the walls and a few tables lay across the open floor. At the far end sat the bar, a dozen stools wide with a wide assortment of faded bottles behind it. And while a couple of wait staff would carry food and drink to the tables, one single lone woman stood behind the bar, wiping down a glass beer mug.

The door creaked open, and the conversation died down a bit as the patrons looked toward the newcomer and back. He was a fairly short man, dressed in worn clothing and wearing a wide had, even indoors. The bartender watched him closely as she polished her mug. He walked around tables, dodging wait staff and patrons alike, before arriving at a stool and sitting himself down with a very nervous look on his face. Only then did he realize the young bartender's eyes hadn't left him since he walked in the door. Catching her gaze, his face began to grow pale, and her gaze sharpened.

Putting the mug down, she leaned an elbow on the bar and stared intently.

"What'll it be?"

"I.." he stammered, "I w-was told you could help. They said you.." She stopped, and moved her face closer to his, as if studying it. "They said you know things," he finally finished.

"This is a bar, sweetie. I serve drinks." Her eyes closed slowly as she stood back up and grabbed a fresh mug to polish. "So. What'll it be?"

The man went silent for a minute, frozen by shear intimidation. He glanced around, and saw a handful of patrons had begun glancing his way, and steeled what resolve he had.

"Espresso. Hot." He said the words as if he'd practiced them. She smiled slightly.

"Shot of moonshine with it?" she asked, leaning her elbow back on the table.

"No, ma'am. Just a single hot espresso." She stood back up, grabbed another mug, and began to polish once again.

"How hot?"

"Inside of 8 hours." He pondered, looking around, and continued. "I'm heading west, if that makes a difference." The look on her face didn't change, but she began looking around. After a moment, she put the mug down, and poured some liquid into a small teacup, and placed it in front of him.

"Espresso, hot." She leaned in closer, looking him in the eye. "Tan overcoat, beard, two plates of food. He'll be able to help you." She stood back up. "Twenty bucks, whenever you're ready, sweetie." And with that, she grabbed another mug.

****************

After a few minutes, he returned to the bar, put the bill down, nodded, and left. She smiled to herself. It ain't much, but it's honest work, she joked to herself. The bar offered more than just drinks, to the right customers. But to anyone else, especially those not from the west end, it was nothing more than a run-down old bar.

Espresso was code, for leaving in a hurry, and moonshine meant transporting cargo. Crystal Tequila meant you were looking for information, just like a crystal ball. But there was one other service they provided as well. Maker's Mark Whiskey; sending your mark to meet their maker. It wasn't often a call came in for it, but when one did, the patron was in just as much, if not more, danger than their mark, especially once they'd placed the order.

Heh. 'Honest' work. She glanced around, smiling to herself at this small empire she'd built. Guildmaster Barkeep. Has a nice ring to it.. She'd long prided herself on her ability to read people, and that ability had served her well. Connecting the right people to the right people was a valuable skill around here, and good company and strong friends was a pretty good insurance policy against would-be troublemakers, be they law or otherwise.

Just then, the door opened again, and two men in fairly clean suits walked in, crossed the floor, and sat down beside each other at the bar. Still polishing a mug, she walked over to them.

"What'll it be, boys?" One looked nervous, and the other strangely confident.

"Crystal Tequila," the confident one stated. She looked at him, then at his partner.

"And for you?" She asked, leaning in close enough for his face to grow pale.

"It's for me," he said, looking toward the table. "One shot of Crystal Tequila, please." She stood straight, and looked to his friend. After a moment, she grabbed an shot glass, and poured a drink.

"Twenty bucks, whenever you're ready, bud." The two looked at each other, and the confident one smiled, and let out a sigh. As she walked away, she heard them bickering with each other. Such occurrences weren't uncommon, but not everyone gets the bar's best service. She walked over to a regular sitting at the end of the bar.

"What'll it be?" she said with a smile.

"Just a mug of half decent beer, if ya don't mind."

She poured him a mug, and set it on the table with a light thunk.

"You know those two?" he asked, nodding slightly in the still bickering pair's direction. She grabbed another mug, and began to polish.

"The one on the right is new. Never seen him. Jumpy, probably never been 'round here before. But the other one's a detective. Nasty sort, too. 'The Law Is The Law' and all that." The man took a swig of beer, and nodded.

"And if the kid was alone?"

The two looked at each other, and shared a slight smile. He wasn't alone. Poor guy probably didn't have any other options, and that detective was almost certainly trying to take advantage of that to get to the bar. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

****************

Time would pass, and eventually the detective lost interest and left. As the door creaked shut behind him, the bartender came back to the young man, staring at the empty shot glass. His eyes were blank.

"You made a nasty choice bringing him here," she noted. "He must have told you the kind of place this is, and you came here with someone like him." No reaction. She tapped a mug on the table in front of him, and he jolted back up. "Welcome back to the land of the not dead yet." His eyes wandered back to the glass, and he slowly slid it forward.

"One shot of Crystal Tequila," he asked, not looking up. "Please. Nobody else can help." She smiled warmly, poured the drink. and tapped the glass back down.

"Glad you found the courage. To your left, the dark table." She stood back up, and began polishing. "He's quite a fan of Tequila. Might share your interests," she muttered as she walked away.

And so continued another evening. Knowing who to help with what was a skill few were able to master and still keep their freedom, and fewer still were able to remain a public face as she had. A dark open secret with no proof was tough to be sure, at least from the outside, but with the army of people she'd helped over the years, it wasn't hard to see why nobody ever messed with her.

After all, she was only a humble bartender, in a run-down old bar, in the bad part of town. Full of dark secrets and criminals. But with connections like hers, she might as well have been a beloved queen, with just as much power and influence, and her loyal guards could never be bought.

Not bad, she thought to herself, polishing another mug. Not bad at all.
Gearhead mechanic in the digital era, who will probably grow up is in the process of growing up to be a very grumpy old man.

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