Post by Deleted on Mar 14, 2016 0:04:58 GMT 2
The bar was in rare form tonight. The locals and the undesirables mingled with professional criminals with a kind of relaxed familiarity that could almost be mistaken for friendliness. Some played darts, some played cards, and a handful of the braver patrons played knife games while the bar owner wasn’t looking, long edged blades chipping into the old wood of a table that had weathered far worse abuse over the decades. Even some of the younger elements flitted about the periphery of the bar, drinking in the stories told by armored car hijackers and mob hitmen. Lightfoots Sleazy Bar could have been described in a number of different ways, most of which were uncomplimentary, but there was one word that every regular used in its description.
Safe.
Not in the sense that there wasn’t any violence, even the loaded shotgun behind the bar wasn’t enough to keep some men in line, but safe in the sense that you could be yourself. So you killed people for money, so you hacked a police mainframe to clear your gay nephews prostitution arrest records. Most people here had done the same or worse at some point or another in their careers. They saw you for who you were as opposed to what you did, and in Michael’s opinion, that made all the difference.
The twenty eight year old bartender had the night off officially, the owner Bobby was serving the drinks with the kind of disinterested precision that came from years of practice, and the jukebox was blaring the strangest assortment of classic rock one could hear in Illinois.
All in all it was a strange atmosphere, but one that Michael Mattingly cherished dearly. Especially after his third whiskey ginger.
Snippets of conversation reached his ears as he cast his blue eyes at the crowd. To his left, further back by the juke box and dimly lit tables were the old guard of criminals. The ones that had made it to retirement, the ones who didn’t have friends from the good old days still walking above ground. Reaching your venerable years in their line of work wasn’t just an accomplishment, it was a damned miracle. Now they commiserate with fellow survivors, old enemies turned drinking buddies, old rivals turned turned brothers in arms. It was a stark contrast from the louder group of patrons at the bar and by the dart boards. They weren’t rookies, at least not most them. But they still had their friends, still had their hands and their consciousness mostly clean. Most of them were small timers, some of them were truly terrifying.
All of them left a wide berth around Michael’s table. All but two.
John and Jason McCrea were two local boys with a family history of criminal activity. They had a lot of enthusiasm for crime, but a limited understanding of its proper execution. Consequently, they were both simultaneously looked down on, and protected by the regulars. They were almost family. And they were damned annoying, especially when they were being quiet like tonight. Whatever they were up to, it made Michael frown into his glass as he watched them whispering to one another at the corner of the bar.
It was an entertaining enough activity for the moment. He was, after all, just killing time before he went back downstairs and finished the casings for the new shaped charges he was working on. Assuming he was still sober by then.
Safe.
Not in the sense that there wasn’t any violence, even the loaded shotgun behind the bar wasn’t enough to keep some men in line, but safe in the sense that you could be yourself. So you killed people for money, so you hacked a police mainframe to clear your gay nephews prostitution arrest records. Most people here had done the same or worse at some point or another in their careers. They saw you for who you were as opposed to what you did, and in Michael’s opinion, that made all the difference.
The twenty eight year old bartender had the night off officially, the owner Bobby was serving the drinks with the kind of disinterested precision that came from years of practice, and the jukebox was blaring the strangest assortment of classic rock one could hear in Illinois.
All in all it was a strange atmosphere, but one that Michael Mattingly cherished dearly. Especially after his third whiskey ginger.
Snippets of conversation reached his ears as he cast his blue eyes at the crowd. To his left, further back by the juke box and dimly lit tables were the old guard of criminals. The ones that had made it to retirement, the ones who didn’t have friends from the good old days still walking above ground. Reaching your venerable years in their line of work wasn’t just an accomplishment, it was a damned miracle. Now they commiserate with fellow survivors, old enemies turned drinking buddies, old rivals turned turned brothers in arms. It was a stark contrast from the louder group of patrons at the bar and by the dart boards. They weren’t rookies, at least not most them. But they still had their friends, still had their hands and their consciousness mostly clean. Most of them were small timers, some of them were truly terrifying.
All of them left a wide berth around Michael’s table. All but two.
John and Jason McCrea were two local boys with a family history of criminal activity. They had a lot of enthusiasm for crime, but a limited understanding of its proper execution. Consequently, they were both simultaneously looked down on, and protected by the regulars. They were almost family. And they were damned annoying, especially when they were being quiet like tonight. Whatever they were up to, it made Michael frown into his glass as he watched them whispering to one another at the corner of the bar.
It was an entertaining enough activity for the moment. He was, after all, just killing time before he went back downstairs and finished the casings for the new shaped charges he was working on. Assuming he was still sober by then.
