The door to the bar and the two men in leather stepped inside. Blake lifted his head from his beer to examine the two men.
One was a large blond man in a biker leather vest. He wore a plain gray t-shirt that stretched across his chest. The other man was smaller, but with broad shoulders, with white hair, looking uncomfortable in his leather jacket. Blake snorted – posers. And something else weird.
The big man went up to the bar, the smaller one following. “I’ll take a Jack and a beer, two of ’em,” he said, glancing back at his companion. Blake snorted again. Someone out to impress.
Blake and Lynn the bartender were the only people who were in the bar this early in the day. Lynn smiled at the two men and set up two Jacks and two Millers-on-tap. The two men saluted each other and drank the Jacks down, then started on the beer.
Lynn struck up the conversation, “You two out for a ride this afternoon?”
The blond man nodded. “We’re goin’ to the Big E.”
“That’ll be a nice afternoon,” said Lynn, looking at the two of them. “Have you ever been there?”
“I haven’t,” said the white-haired man. “I’m assured that I’ll be able to see animals of all sorts and have ‘funnel cakes’.”
“Ya make it sound like I’m takin’ ya to hell,” laughed the blond, and then leaned over and kissed the white-haired man.
That was too much for Blake. “HEY! This ain’ no faggot bar!” Blake slid out from the booth. He hoped they noticed his veteran’s patches on his army vest, though he hoped they didn’t see his limp as he started toward them.
Both men looked at him as if he was the crazy one. “Obviously not,” said the white-haired man, as the blond slid off the bar stool. “Who you callin’ a faggot?”
“Knight,” said the white-haired man, “It’s not worth it.”
The blond called Knight glared at Blake, daring him. Blake fingered his bowie knife that he carried with him everywhere. He could gut this guy without a thought, like he gutted those Chinks years ago. Easy.
Lynn said, “Blake, c’mon honey. Let me get you another beer.”
“On me,” said the white-haired man. “Anything he wants.”
Blake was looking at the blond man’s washboard stomach, thinking about gutting him, but then Lynn’s voice came through his mind, “How about the ten year old scotch Phil’s got for special occasions?”
Blake turned to Lynn. Scotch. Yeah, scotch was better than blood.
“Sure,” Blake said, and shuffled back to his booth. By the time Lynn arrived with the scotch, the two men were gone.
(Inspired by a dream the night before.)