Just Another Liar

Chapter 1: Milo

Neon red.

Violent and imposing, the hue washed out everything  around me. It was so vibrant, making it difficult for me to see the star-filled sky. 

The small town of San Angelo, Texas, did not have much to offer. It only contained three things of note; a small college, a military base, and a river. One of the few benefits of the town was its night sky dotted with thousands of stars.

The country bar's sign was the only source of brightness in the surrounding area. The bar, unimaginatively named Bar, stood in the middle of nowhere. It needed a new roof and would have benefited from a new coat of paint. The humidity from an earlier rain caused the hot air to feel suffocating. Heat was my mortal enemy. Not yet being acclimated, I felt like my vitality was being sapped away. Cool air wafted from the cracked door, a welcomed invitation to my bare skin.

Wet sand coated the shell of my new brown work boots as I entered the establishment. The scent of men fresh from a day of construction left a cloud of musk in the already dank air. Wistful country music played in the background, not being noticed by most who were several drinks into the night. The floor was sticky, so I assumed it had gone without being cleaned in several weeks. Peanut shells covered the perimeter of the dining area. Someone had swept them out of the way but did not bother to pick them up. The patrons looked at me for a few seconds, then ignored my presence. I was not more interesting than the liquid in their cups and the food on their plates. Newcomers were normal even though I doubted most people with my skin tone ventured near the cotton fields.

There were sixteen patrons inside, half at the bar, and the others were in booths or engaged in the game playing on the degraded television screen. My walk slow, and eyes scanning I found a seat near the corner of the bar. The mixologist who I was sure would never call himself that nodded at me and received one in return.

I did not belong in the room. Almost everyone here was rugged, older, and tanned from long days in the sweltering summer heat. I looked like a poor imitation in my new purchases of flannel, jeans, and work boots that had fresh soles. All the other boots looked well worn or in need of replacement.

Sitting patiently, I observed everyone around me. For five minutes I examined a woman breathing in and out. Grazing my hand over the rough denim making up my jeans, I looked at the man sitting at a far corner of the bar with several glasses stacked in a pyramid next to him. I stood up and inspected him deeply.

He had short dark curls weighed down by oil and perspiration. His beard desperately needed grooming, and brows could use a plucking session. Despite the filth, he was a handsome guy with a wide nose and full berry toned lips. His ears, which were just under being a few centimeters too big for his head, tinged red along with the rest of his face from his alcohol consumption. Sweat over his tawny beige skin made him glisten like a polished statue under the dull lighting.

As I stepped closer, I noticed a dried russet substance around the cuticle of his fingers. I knew it to be blood from experience. The man brought the bloody hand holding a shot glass of clear liquor to his chapped lips. I watched the muscles in his right arm tense and contract as his veins pulsed. The liquid moistened his lips for a moment before they dried out again. He would drink himself into alcohol poisoning if he continued. Even for a man as sturdy as him, twelve shots was a lot. He was running from something, and I desired to know what that something was.

As I walked up, the man noticed my presence. I could smell him from a few feet away. An odor of alcohol, stale breath, and dirt. It wasn't pleasant, but I had to speak to him, so I breathed out of my mouth.

Unlike me, the drunk wore a shirt and sweat shorts that sat low on his hips revealing his designer underwear label. I ventured closer, taking in more details. His arms tattooed with indigenous South American patterns stood out against his skin. The other arm did not have pictures to cover the scars. He had the arms of a fighter, someone who had won and lost.