From a hard drive’s depths

A little something from the ‘first draft’ folder on the hard drive. Figured I could just leave it here.

Compensation

“It’s not my place,” I said, rolling a greasy rag around the inside of a glass.

“I’m just covering.”

The mook jammed his fat hands on the bar, leaned hard into my face, close enough so I could read the misspelled ink scrawled across his neck. The stink of onions on his breath made my guts twist.

“I don’t care who owns the place,” he said, hammering the register with a fist that had seen more action than the hookers and dealers who worked the joint on a Saturday night.

“I got a complaint and I wants compensation.”

The goon burned red-rimmed eyes into my skull, ran a hand across the greying stubble running a male-pattern marathon toward the back of his head.

“Look mate,” I said, putting the glass on the optic shelf behind me, dropping the hand behind my back.

“Ronny’s not in ’til Wednesday. You got a complaint, you come back then.”

“You know who I am?”

He didn’t give me a chance to answer. Faster than I’d have thought an overweight, middle-age piss-head could shift, he spun on his toe and grabbed the nearest stool. His gut moved like a water bed under his white wife-beater as he twisted at the waist and hurled it at my head.

I took my step in his little dance, felt air shift as the rickety chair whistled past my face, smashed into kindling against the display. Glass and liquor rained down, the former biting through my black shirt, the latter aggravating the cuts.

“Listen, you fat fuck,” I sneered, making a reach for the back of my

jeans.

“I haven’t a clue who you are. Ronny’s not here and I don’t own the bar,”

He flashed me a look at his rotten teeth, started to speak. He choked on

his words about the same time I got the Bowie knife’s point level with his

chest.

“But this is Betty. She’s all mine. If you still want to make that

complaint, I’m sure she’ll be happy to give your compensation.”

Aggression melted from the fat man’s mug as the hiss of his voiding bladder filled the air. He switched a look from me to the blade then back to my face.

His thick hands dropped to cover his crotch.

“Yeah,” I said, turning the knife so it gleamed in the pub’s greasy lighting

just right.

“Maybe you should wait ’til Ronny gets back?”

His flabby jowls shook. He nodded his ascent before he made for the door.

Sliding the weapon back in my jeans, I looked at the piss-puddle steaming on bare wooden boards.

“Great,” I said, reaching for the mop.

“Fucking great.”

Delayed transmission

It’s been a while, I know.

The sun keeps rising, the world keeps turning and life has shuffled on in its random, beautiful dance of chaos.

I found myself caught in that tornado, got myself spun around like the hook in some bad ’80s pop song. Nevermind (although that was definitely ’90s).

I haven’t published for almost a year. My productivity had dropped to almost zero. Other than two posts here and a short story that is currently fermenting on my hard drive, my usual ‘acceptable’ levels of output have slowed to a crawl. My brain’s been tied down, gagged, whipped into submission. Things had stopped working.

Today, that changed. After scribbling down the basic idea of a story, I’ve managed to pull together a rough outline and 10 more in-depth scenes. BecauseĀ  Dwight V. Swain’s ‘Techniques of the selling writer’ proved to be such an effective bulldozer to clear away the blockage and debris, I’d heartily recommend it. Of course, I’m aware my recommendations mean nothing here; there are no links to my work, my history or even hints of ‘the old voice’. That doesn’t mean it’s not an excellent book.

Anyway, after so long, I don’t want to bombard the internet with words lacking in content. It’s time readied my overalls for the morning and headed to bead.

G’night.