Dive Bar Oracle

Chapter One

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The chapters may run on the short side. At least some of them were written in a time limited group setting, and later edited from stand alone continuations of a drabble series to chapters for this book.

Please read and leave constructive feedback! I would love to know what you think I'm good at, or what you think I can improve on!

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Chapter One

The air hung heavy in the smoke filled bar; thick with coarse language and laughter that blended into a rumbling cacophony. The florescent lights above buzzed as they clung to life; and an odor of stale cigarettes, booze, and heavy perfume was tainted with hints of piss and bile that indicated folks had become too intoxicated to find the bathroom on time.

It was a dive, but night after night this was where Anthony Williams found himself. Anthony (or Tony) was the name his parents had given him; but these days folks called him Mack because he'd spent years as a long haul. It was only a few years ago he found himself in a position of having to retire; and while there was plenty of talk about why, no one knew the whole truth...he couldn't let them know.

A puff of ironic laughter escaped his lips as he waited for his night's first order. These dives were the best places to come...or he'd end up here eventually half the time, anyhow. This gift, curse, whatever it was, led him to the people in these places time and time again. No high class bar patrons ever needed him...not that he could afford to drink with them anyway. The deep blue flannel he wore would get him kicked out on his kiester before he had a chance to try.

Shaking his head he ruffled his mess of salt and pepper hair; before grabbing the tumbler of whiskey that had just been set before him with a clink. He stared into it's amber depths; seeing nothing but the bright liquid. It would only remain that until he drank. How had he gained this God forsaken talent?

He gulped down a mouthful, wincing as it stung its way down before gazing back into the tumbler. Through the booze, the bottom of the glass seemed to shift and swirl. He could see it, hazy like, not some crisp movie image. It was a vision of what would come, a woman, seeming in distress. A scuffle, he couldn't tell just who was involved. Gun flash. Emergency lights.

The image faded...he needed to draw another sip...and so he did. Looking into the glass, another image appeared. Blood, a woman's tears, a child.

He was interrupted by the bar keep, and cursed silently as he missed the rest of the premonition, "You okay, Mack?"

"Fine. Jes fine. Let me be," He lifted the glass again, but it slipped from his fingers when he heard a feminine shout.

"Hey! Let me go!" Mack's vision landed on the yelling woman, a terrified black waitress who looked half his age. Her hair, natural and full, bounced as she struggled against being man handled. A large white man had a bruising grip on her wrist, holding her close to him and sneering.

This had to have something to do with the images floating within his whiskey earlier. Mack decided it was time to intervene, as his curse allowed him to do. If he had seen more of the flashes, he'd have a fuller idea of what was coming. He'd have been more prepared. Still, Mack pulled himself into a standing position.

"Now stop that!" He shouted at the drunken creep who was leering dangerously at the woman.

Rushing forward without thinking; the aging retiree engaged the man, throwing a punch. The woman was pushed aside in the scuffle. For a man who made a life of drinking Mack could hold his own. 

A loud shot rang out. 

Suddenly Mack was left gasping and dazed as blood soaked the flannel of his shirt; spilling from the bullet hole in his gut. The gunman gave a final glare at the waitress, and ran out of the bar.

The dive was fading in and out of focus, somewhere Mack was aware of the woman sobbing at his side, the dampness of her tears landing on his face and neck. There was some muted sense of words being spoken, and sirens wailing in the distance.

Flashing lights lit his blurred vision through the window, all bright and blinding. Everything faded together into a mass of confusion; and darkness began to eat away at the edges of his sight. He was vaguely aware of the the paramedics rushing in, fussing over his injury.

The EMTs loaded Mack onto a stretcher and he let his eyes drift closed as the wheels rattled out of the bar and across the gravel lot. By the time he was hefted into the back of the ambulance he was out cold.

As if a dream a last bit of sound filtered in, the voice of the woman arguing with the EMTs about riding along, and insisting she needed to make sure he arrived safely. She must have gotten her way; because Mack stirred close enough to waking that he heard her shouting to the barkeep through his haze, "Kirby! Call my Mama, let her know I'll be home late!"