Tevun-Krus #34 - GothPunk

Half-Light: Resurrection [teaser] - A Short Story by @AngusEcrivain

The tumbler hit the bar and because he knew what was good for him the barkeep scurried over, removing the cap from the bottle of Glenmorangie as he did so.

Within seconds the tumbler was half full once more and a strong-fingered hand grasped it.

The bar was dark, illuminated only by a pair of wall lights opposite the bar and a single downlight behind. In the corner, between the rank-smelling Gents' and the decrepit cigarette machine, empty and no longer functional, a jukebox churned out some old rock song.

Creedance have def'nitely got it fuckin' right, he thought, knocking the contents of the tumbler down in one. Fuckin' bad moon's been risin' for a long fuckin' time.

The barkeep half-filled the tumbler once more whilst he lit a cigarette.

"Like it fuckin' matters," he mumbled, his eyes raised as he glanced towards the 'No Smoking,' sign the bartender was tentatively gesturing towards. "Besides, ain't like you's're famous for your human clientele, Frank. Pretty sure when that fuckin' assanine law was passed, fuckers weren't thinkin' about protectin' the health an' well-bein' of them bloodsuckin' cunts an' their pet doggies, eh?"

"As long as they pay I don't rightly give a shit what they drink or how hairy their arse crack might be," the barkeep, Frank, replied, though he sighed deeply directly thereafter. He really ought to have known better than to talk back, especially with regard to such sensitive subject matter.

"Guessin' y'don't get many hunters in here, Frank."

"Not any more," he replied, his eyes flitting first left then right, as he sought an escape route should such thing as scarpering become necessary. "Last hunter I saw make it through those doors alive before you was less than six months in."

"Lucky for you you still ain't. Ain't a hunter, see..."

"If not a hunter, then what?" Frank asked, his eyebrow raised as his curiosity got the better of him. "Not being funny, but if you're not a hunter then you've got some damn balls, my friend. You know who frequents this bar, don't you?"

"Aye, I do," he replied, grinning. "Countin' on him showin' up in a lil' under five minutes so if you see that raggedy-ass, hairy motherfucker before I do, point the bastard in my direction."

Frank shrugged, refilled the stranger's glass once more and shuffled away to busy himself polishing glasses with a stained rag, cleaning pumps or anything else he could think of to take his mind off the fact that whilst the stranger might well have the biggest set of stones he had ever witnessed, Cerberus was going to tear the poor bastard limb from limb.

***

At the roar of a trio of high specification muscle cars, the man placed the tumbler to the bar once more, only this time it was not refilled and he raised an eyebrow, grinning. Clearly, Frank was not the kind of bartender to waste semi-decent Scotch on a soon-to-be dead man. It was not like he could blame him, mind. It was common knowledge that Cerberus had turned more humans than any other werewolf on Earth and with every human he turned his power grew. In fact there were few vampires, beings of far greater intellect and wiliness who reputedly engineered the first werewolf in a laboratory on some distant planet, who would willingly engage the powerful creature in a game of Battleships, let alone in actual battle.

"Any humans in here, Frank?" he asked, a question to which the barkeep nodded in reply. "Might wanna' think about gettin' 'em the fuck outta' here then. Shit's about to get all kindsa' fucked up."

Frank glanced at the man and then towards the door. The engine noise had ceased, implying it would only be a matter of seconds before Cerberus and his posse made their way through the front door.