Hey guys! I just wrote this little number out of random. Enjoy and happy reading!
So there's this guy at the bar...
A ghastly man entered the Bar, a dark aura surrounding him. Everyone in the bar peered at him, but kept quiet. The man wore a black trenchcoat, a dark fedora, and black sunglasses. He looked as if one not to mess with.
He went over to the benches, motioning for George the Bartender to come over.
"Get me a beer please. Cools." He muttered those 6 words in alow tone. George, who seem to be in his 60s, nervously nodded and handed him a bottle of beer. The stranger flipped open the top and began gulping it down to the bottom.
George stared at the man until he was finished with his drink.
"Another one please." The man simply spoke.
George sighed and gave him another one. Here's another victim ready to be drunk.
The man stayed for hours and hours, drinking the whole time. He must be drunk by now...but surprisingly, he wasn't. The man looked pale and dangerous, and he had a eerie tone attached to him. George didn't know whether to awe or shudder.
When they reached closing time, the stranger was still there, though he fell asleep. George felt afraid to address the man, but it was his responsibility to let the man know that he was closing.
"Sir, we're closing..." George spoke softly to the sleeping man. He woke up from the table with a headache; he must've fell asleep from another one of those drinks.
"Thank you, uh..."
"George. George Smith, sir." The old man shook his hand.
"Otto." The man shook his hand back. George handed him a slip of paper.
"Here's your bill."
With wide eyes of shock, Otto stared at the bill, and reached in his pocket. There's no cash or check.
"So, uh, Mr. Smith," Otto looked up to the old man, his hand in his pocket, "do you have a family?"
The old man smiled weakly. "Why yes sir!" He took out a family photo from his pocket. "Here's my wife, and my two sons all grown up with my grandchildren...before my youngest son died."
Otto gulped. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Well. He was a medical student for grad school, and he was in-training, working with real patients. One of them, unfortunately, became crazy. He killed my son in the emergency room, when they were trying to, I dunno, separate this man from this strange robot? He ended up being a criminal. Doc Ock, I think." The old man sadly put his photo back in his pocket.
Otto gulped; he was definitely in the wrong place.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Smith...uh, I don't have any money..." Otto took his hand out of his pocket.
"That's okay!" The old man became cheery again. "Besides, I'm too old to clean up by myself. I'd need some help cleaning up this place...I only just have 3 more weeks until retirement..."
Otto weakly smiled, and stood up from his bench.
"Can you throw away those beer bottles please? When you're done, the dirty dishes and the sink is in the back. Thank you." The bartender began washing the tables.
Otto nodded and obeyed. He quickly threw away the bottles he drank before and the left over bottles that lazy customers forgotten to throw away, and he went ahead in doing the dishes.
Otto stared at the tall and dirty pile he had to clean. This...might take a while. But, the good stranger never complained, and went to work. It was the least he could do for the mourning father of one of the doctors he killed...
He began with the plates first. There was no dishwasher, so he had to wash them by hand. He found a rag, and a bottle of soap, and began scrubbing. Is this a diner, Otto thought, or a bar? Sigh. He didn't like cleaning that much...
Otto looked from behind his shoulder to see what the bartender's doing. It'll probably take him a while to sweep...?
"Come on out..." he whispered for his actuators to come out from his jacket, to help him with the chore. "But hurry...and quietly."
He silently did the dishes.
George stopped sweeping. Otto's being quiet, lately. He heard some 'clanking' from the dishes being put away, but never heard a complaint.
The elderly bartender began to walk up the kitchen.
He heard some metallic noises. What?
He peeked in...and he saw a man, Otto, with four metallic snake-like things coming out from his back, doing dishes automatically.
"Oh my god..." he whispered. Otto didn't hear. He didn't see either.
George frantically but slowly looked for his shotgun, the very weapon that saved him from robberies countless times. "Two bullets should be enough..." he looked for ammo, and cocked his gun. He turned around, but stopped.
What am I doing? The old man thought. Is this right? A murder for a murder? This man did apologize...
He stood there, struggling. This very man killed his own son! But, there was something about Otto that wasn't right. It was a feeling of sadness, pain, sorrow...even regret. Should he kill him and revenge his son? But he doesn't want to kill...it wouldn't make him any different.
Shaking, George looked at his shotgun. "No..." he muttered, and placed his shotgun back to where it belonged.
Swallowing, George just went back to his broomstick, and continued sweeping. There will be no bloodshed that night.
Otto washed his hands, and wiped the bead of sweat off his forehead. His work was done. Not very much of a dish washer, but he did it.
He looked proudly at his actuators, patting one of them in the 'head'. They serve him well, his excellent assistants.
Otto turned to the door, noticing that the old bartender hadn't checked in him yet. "Good," he muttered, "hide, so I can get out of here."
He walked out the kitchen door. George was still sweeping, but was almost through.
"Uh, Mr. Smith," he said to the old man, "I'm, uh, done."
"Thank you. You may go now." The old man didn't even look up. He continued to sweep.
Otto was confused. Wouldn't this man get the slightest hint that he finished at bit too early? Otto shook his head, forgetting about it, and began to exit.
"You know," George spoke out, "my son, he...it was always a dream for him to help people. He'd want to save a life, even at the cost of his own. I just wanted to let you know."
Otto paused, facing the exit with unease. He turned to look at the older man, and nodded.
"Doc Ock," he said, "or rather Doctor Octavius...he told me something once. I knew him before. A-and he...he told me, that he had dreams too. H-he wanted to help people too. He wasn't trying to take over the world or a-anything like that. He didn't care about money. It was a b-big blow for him...with the accident." Otto mentally kicked himself for stuttering.
The old man was still sweeping. Otto thought maybe the old man didn't listen.
"I don't think he wanted to kill your son. I don't think he wanted to kill anybody. Something just happened, and it made him do it. Probably stuck a nerve. But he didn't mean to kill your son."
He was still sweeping.
Otto looked back to the old man once again, noticing the grayness of his hair, the tiredness in his face. All those years wore him out, Otto thought. His son's death was unbearable to this man. This world could only be in so much tragedy...
"Good day." The good trenchcoat stranger turned around to leave.
But his spine chilled, just in the moment of hearing the cracked response of the old man:
"Thank you, Otto Octavius."
Otto smiled over at the sad man, who turned out to be crying. He then nodded and left in a hurry.
I always wanted to know what would happen if Otto met a relative or friend of someone he killed. Probably not likely to end without some violence going on, but what the heck, I'm creating a Hallmark moment here! Ha.
Review, kudo-givers, and you shall have a tasty sugar cookie with the blue frosting on top!