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FREE HARDBOILED AND CRIME FICTION FROM DGP
PUNCHY by ZACH WILHIDE
Lucius “Pops” Warren was drunk and sad.
He looked at the clock above the bar and frowned at the blurry numbers reading 10:30 P.M. Social hour on a Friday night and the bar was empty. The only noise came from the news on the TV above his head. Pops shook his head and poured himself another double of Wild Turkey. It was getting harder and harder to face Mary with nothing but empty pockets to show for his work. Pops sighed… and then his world went gray.
The fogs would drift in thick as steam. The greedy tendrils would wrap themselves around a memory and choke color to gray. Years of his past distorted into confused and colorless lost minutes of his present. He needed to talk to Mary about it, but it just wasn’t time yet. Just as his mind was starting to cocoon around him, the bar door slammed open and colored his world again.
Bleary-eyed, Pops looked over and saw a twenty-something Rocky Marciano-looking kid limping on his right leg. With a nod, the kid walk-hopped over to a booth and slid into the seat.
“You alright?” Pops said.
“Yeah… yeah, just a long night. Been out of town for a while and I’m making up for lost time. Hey, mind turning that TV off? It’s distracting.”
“Sure, damn thing’s on the fritz anyway. Color keeps fading in and out.” Pops switched off the TV just as the doe-eyed reporter was warning the viewing audience about a recent armed robbery.
"What’ll it be?”
“A Dickel and a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee’s few hours old.”
“That’s fine. I doubt I’ll notice any difference.”
Pops shrugged and started working on the drinks.
“This you?” The kid said, gesturing with his head toward the fight posters on the walls. “‘Pops’ Warren.”
“That was me a long time ago. You a fan of the ‘sweet science’?”
“Dad was. Used to take me every week to watch those guys train; thought it was better than the fight. Said the fight was just a show, all illusion…like a magic act. You believe that? Told me training was the honest part of the sport. He’d point out the most average-looking guy in the gym, the guy toiling away on the heavy bag in the corner, and he’d say ‘that there’s an honest fighter.’”
Pops paused and remembered the shattered knuckles and bruised eye sockets. The separated shoulders; the way his joints would still sound like rusty machinery when it got cold outside; the fog. “Honest” definitely wasn’t the word he’d use.
“What kind of fighter were you?” The kid said.
“The kind who bled too much, too early. I didn’t last long in the ring. Did a little bit of training after my fight days were done, but found myself spending more time sitting on a barstool than standing in a corner.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. I got out before I got too punchy; walked out instead of being carried out, you know? ‘Sides… showed me my true skill set.” Pops held up the two drinks.
The kid nodded like he understood. Pops walked over and set the drinks down.
“…Looks like business is slow,” the kid said, glancing around the empty bar.
“Keeps me fed… mostly.”
“That’s something, I guess.” The kid drained his whisky. He set the glass down with a sigh that floated in the air for a moment, like a bird with a broken wing. The kid reached into his pants and pulled out a Saturday Night Special.
“What are you going to do with that, son?”
“Don’t call me ‘son,’ old man. Just open the register, give me the money, and let me get out of here. Do that and I’ll leave you alone.”
Pops looked over at the bar and thought about the money in the register—just the start-up… a smattering of small bills, maybe a few twenties. He thought about Mary…then, gray. In a breath he was in the ring again. The air was dense with sweat and cigar smoke. He could see his opponent elusively dancing in front of him, some bruiser out of Scranton, in perfect rhythm with the gray tendrils. His right fist arcing through the air and… Bam!
“Move, old man, I told you to get the money out that register!”
Pops put a hand to his face. His fingers were slick with blood and he was staring at the stumpy end of the .38.
“Fine, kid,” Pops said. He started walking towards the register and felt the knobby menace of the gun in his back. After a few halting steps, Pops’ senses returned and he quickly pivoted, surprising the kid with a hook to the face. The kid raised a hand to the wound.
“God damn it, old man! You’re done!”
He raised his gun just as Pops got to the bar. The kid’s eyes widened. The .38 started to tremble when he saw the 12-gauge in Pops’ hands. He opened his mouth to say something, but Mary interrupted. When the sonorous cloud cleared most of the kid was on the ground. The rest was a bloody mess all over the wall. His chest heaving, Pops turned and saw a young man in the booth. His eyes were wide and the coffee cup in his trembling hands was spilling the brown swill down onto the table top.
“Don’t shoot me.”
“You with him?” Pops said.
“With who?”
“This piece of trash who just tried to rob me.”
Pops blinked and turned toward the puddle. No blood. No body parts. He saw only bright shards of bottles and smelled whisky mixed with gun powder. He touched his face where the kid had pistol whipped him. His hand came back reeking of alcohol.
“Son, I think you should go.”
Pops could faintly hear the kid’s footsteps on the pavement outside as he ambled over to the booth, bar rag in hand. Pops downed the untouched shot of Dickel. As he wiped up the coffee mess, he stared at the fight poster into the eyes of his younger self.
Perhaps it was time to have that talk with Mary.
He looked at the clock above the bar and frowned at the blurry numbers reading 10:30 P.M. Social hour on a Friday night and the bar was empty. The only noise came from the news on the TV above his head. Pops shook his head and poured himself another double of Wild Turkey. It was getting harder and harder to face Mary with nothing but empty pockets to show for his work. Pops sighed… and then his world went gray.
The fogs would drift in thick as steam. The greedy tendrils would wrap themselves around a memory and choke color to gray. Years of his past distorted into confused and colorless lost minutes of his present. He needed to talk to Mary about it, but it just wasn’t time yet. Just as his mind was starting to cocoon around him, the bar door slammed open and colored his world again.
Bleary-eyed, Pops looked over and saw a twenty-something Rocky Marciano-looking kid limping on his right leg. With a nod, the kid walk-hopped over to a booth and slid into the seat.
“You alright?” Pops said.
“Yeah… yeah, just a long night. Been out of town for a while and I’m making up for lost time. Hey, mind turning that TV off? It’s distracting.”
“Sure, damn thing’s on the fritz anyway. Color keeps fading in and out.” Pops switched off the TV just as the doe-eyed reporter was warning the viewing audience about a recent armed robbery.
"What’ll it be?”
“A Dickel and a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee’s few hours old.”
“That’s fine. I doubt I’ll notice any difference.”
Pops shrugged and started working on the drinks.
“This you?” The kid said, gesturing with his head toward the fight posters on the walls. “‘Pops’ Warren.”
“That was me a long time ago. You a fan of the ‘sweet science’?”
“Dad was. Used to take me every week to watch those guys train; thought it was better than the fight. Said the fight was just a show, all illusion…like a magic act. You believe that? Told me training was the honest part of the sport. He’d point out the most average-looking guy in the gym, the guy toiling away on the heavy bag in the corner, and he’d say ‘that there’s an honest fighter.’”
Pops paused and remembered the shattered knuckles and bruised eye sockets. The separated shoulders; the way his joints would still sound like rusty machinery when it got cold outside; the fog. “Honest” definitely wasn’t the word he’d use.
“What kind of fighter were you?” The kid said.
“The kind who bled too much, too early. I didn’t last long in the ring. Did a little bit of training after my fight days were done, but found myself spending more time sitting on a barstool than standing in a corner.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. I got out before I got too punchy; walked out instead of being carried out, you know? ‘Sides… showed me my true skill set.” Pops held up the two drinks.
The kid nodded like he understood. Pops walked over and set the drinks down.
“…Looks like business is slow,” the kid said, glancing around the empty bar.
“Keeps me fed… mostly.”
“That’s something, I guess.” The kid drained his whisky. He set the glass down with a sigh that floated in the air for a moment, like a bird with a broken wing. The kid reached into his pants and pulled out a Saturday Night Special.
“What are you going to do with that, son?”
“Don’t call me ‘son,’ old man. Just open the register, give me the money, and let me get out of here. Do that and I’ll leave you alone.”
Pops looked over at the bar and thought about the money in the register—just the start-up… a smattering of small bills, maybe a few twenties. He thought about Mary…then, gray. In a breath he was in the ring again. The air was dense with sweat and cigar smoke. He could see his opponent elusively dancing in front of him, some bruiser out of Scranton, in perfect rhythm with the gray tendrils. His right fist arcing through the air and… Bam!
“Move, old man, I told you to get the money out that register!”
Pops put a hand to his face. His fingers were slick with blood and he was staring at the stumpy end of the .38.
“Fine, kid,” Pops said. He started walking towards the register and felt the knobby menace of the gun in his back. After a few halting steps, Pops’ senses returned and he quickly pivoted, surprising the kid with a hook to the face. The kid raised a hand to the wound.
“God damn it, old man! You’re done!”
He raised his gun just as Pops got to the bar. The kid’s eyes widened. The .38 started to tremble when he saw the 12-gauge in Pops’ hands. He opened his mouth to say something, but Mary interrupted. When the sonorous cloud cleared most of the kid was on the ground. The rest was a bloody mess all over the wall. His chest heaving, Pops turned and saw a young man in the booth. His eyes were wide and the coffee cup in his trembling hands was spilling the brown swill down onto the table top.
“Don’t shoot me.”
“You with him?” Pops said.
“With who?”
“This piece of trash who just tried to rob me.”
Pops blinked and turned toward the puddle. No blood. No body parts. He saw only bright shards of bottles and smelled whisky mixed with gun powder. He touched his face where the kid had pistol whipped him. His hand came back reeking of alcohol.
“Son, I think you should go.”
Pops could faintly hear the kid’s footsteps on the pavement outside as he ambled over to the booth, bar rag in hand. Pops downed the untouched shot of Dickel. As he wiped up the coffee mess, he stared at the fight poster into the eyes of his younger self.
Perhaps it was time to have that talk with Mary.