One Day, Forty Nights

“After one bottle, nothing happens. After a second bottle, again, nothing happens. After a third, the pain goes away. After a fourth, the memories go away. After a fifth, the depression grows. After a sixth, the anger resurfaces. After a seventh, the rage lashes out. Bottles of hundred-proof liquor: the only friends I have left.” I stare out into the lively bar. There are patrons all around drinking, smoking, dancing, and being merry. Most have come for a night out of the house. Others have just gotten off work. Maybe even a few just happened to wander in from the streets outside. I keep to myself in the far back corner of the bar. If someone comes up to me, I don’t look like much. I keep my hood up, covering most of my face, and stick to the shadows of the bar. I prefer to be left alone. I haven’t come here to pick up girls, drink with friends, or meet new people. I have come here to drink my pains away. All the happiness I recently gained in my life is gone. Just think. A month ago, I was the happiest man alive. I had spent my life on a rocky bottom of heartache and anguish. But then, it all came together. The bliss I wanted so badly was awarded to me. And just as quickly as it came, it was robbed from me. Now, I’m in this bar to drown the memory of my sins. “Pass me another drink, you swine. I need more alcohol!” a drunken man shouts at the counter. “I’m losing my buzz!” “I think you have had enough to drink, sir,” replies the bartender calmly. “Can I offer you something else? Maybe some water?” “What did you say to me, you fucking bastard? Do you know who I am? I am a sergeant in the army! I am the biggest badass motherfucker out there! I don’t like you saying I have had too much to drink! Now give me some more beer before I make you!” the man yells right back. I have seen this scenario too many damn times. I think if I try to count the times, my head will implode. It is always guy walks into bar, gets a drink, and then another, and then another, and then another. After a few moments or so, he can’t even stand up straight. He is too shit-faced to act like his usual self, so he turns into a raging drunk who thinks he can hold more liquor and take on the world. What a piece of shit. “Please, sir, I must protest this action. Please calm down, sir,” responds the bartender. “I have had enough of your tone, you fucker! Give me my beer!” the man yells with a growing rage. “Or else the biggest badass motherfucker that I am is going to kick your ass!” Who the hell does this asshole think he is? Only standing around five feet tall, he doesn’t look like the “biggest badass motherfucker” to me. I think he is more like a mini asshole. With his wrinkled face, bald head, and tan skin, I don’t think he is the badass of anything. Well, maybe he is the biggest badass of the ugly bastards, and he fucks mothers. His attitude probably comes from his military uniform. The military force of this place is mainly made up of marines with swamp camouflage and black helmets that cover their faces. Only the officers are different. Most of the officers look similar to this asshole. They usually wear a gray shirt with red stripes across the collar, gray pants, and knee-high riding boots. He must think he is a real hard-core soldier. Maybe he led a squad and found some of the rebels or something. Looking at the increasing redness in his face, I’d say he has a small fuse. Seems to me most of the military assholes that run this planet have short fuses. Any moment now, he will be reaching for that blaster in his holster, and then shit will fly. Now the bartender wants to convince the man that he has had too much to drink and needs to quit. He may ask the guy if he would like some coffee, or maybe something to eat or God knows what. But usually, he’ll get the same response from the asshole. “Oh, I don’t want coffee, I want beer” or “Don’t tell me what to do, you shit-head.” Then the blaster comes out, and the drunk feels in control. I know this bartender from the times I have come in here, and he does have some patience, but when you threaten him, you will pay for sure. “Sir, may I suggest some coffee? We brew some fine coffee here,” the bartender offers and reaches for the coffeepot. “Coffee? Coffee is for cock-sucking faggots! Give me another alcoholic drink or I’ll blast ya!” the officer barks in anger and pushes the coffeepot away from the bartender. I hate it when I’m right. Right on cue, the drunk reaches for his blaster. The bastard pulls out his pistol and aims it right at the bartender’s head. The Odvidian bartender, Hoargele, has had about enough of this military son of a bitch from the looks of it. He just stares down the barrel of the blaster. His three green eyes stare into the eyes of the soldier. His square face shows no fear, and not even sweat appears on his black, scaly skin. He rests his seven arms he uses to serve drinks on the counter of the bar and waits for the man, now covered in sweat, to make a move. But what this officer fuck doesn’t know, or I hope he figures out real fucking quickly, is that Odvidians have eight arms. Knowing Hoargele, he has his blaster in his eighth arm, already cocked and loaded. Hoargele is a decent guy from what I hear. He wasn’t born here, but he came to this world when he was very young, and it’s been the only home he has known. Ever since the world has been taken over by new management, Hoargele has been helping the resistance. He mainly provides inside information for them, and every once in a while he helps out in one of their raids. For a large brute, he is pretty sneaky. He’s a gentle giant to many, but to those marines, he’ll kill them if he gets the chance. Martial law has been in effect for a while, so he doesn’t have to worry about any trouble from the cops. The band stops playing as all the patrons of the bar watch and wait for one of the two to act. The soldier fires a shot and hits Hoargele square in the face. The shot deflects off the scales of the bartender and shatters a bottle of some kind of alien liquor. Hoargele sneers as he pulls out his blaster. The guy just stands there, too shit-faced and shocked that the armored scales of the Odvidian deflected the shot. The man squeaks out “wait” just before Hoargele fires his blaster. The blaster bolt screams forward and slams into the sweaty face of the soldier. The shot cuts through his skin effortlessly. I watch as his nose starts to spread open, exposing the inner flesh of his nose. The blaster bolts Odvidians have are amazing. The opening continues to expand, causing his eyes to slowly unravel from his eyelids. The bolt drills into his skull, and then the bastard’s head explodes. Small chunks of brain fly to the far corners of the bar. A piece even lands on my table. I look back to the man and see what is left of his face. Everything above his lower jawbone is gone, except for a half-fried eyeball hanging off to the side by his optic nerve. His body, lifeless and soaking in the now gushing blood from his neck, sways back and forth for a couple of seconds. Finally, his body gives way, and he collapses onto the counter. Blood flows from his neck and spreads out over the countertop like a flood. “Shit, now I have to clean this asshole up,” laughs the bartender as he slams a wet rag onto the counter.