Chapter 3

This is a really, really bad idea

The McQuire Street Pub was your typical dingy establishment. A dark little bar, it was a favorite for local deadbeat dads and perverted construction workers. Not exactly the kind of place a girl like Millie Hart would frequent on a school night, but it was exactly the kind of establishment George Lass always found herself stuck in when she had a crappier than usual assignment.

Stepping into the dimly lit bar, her nose immediately scrunched up as she was assaulted with the overwhelming stench of stale cigarette smoke and booze. A couple heads turned to look at the person responsible for letting the light in from the bar, and George just smiled awkwardly and raised her hand to wave.

At least there's no swordfish above the bar.

"Sorry little lady, 21 and over only." The bartender nodded to a sign behind him. George couldn't help but notice the bald, overly tattooed man was missing a couple teeth up front.

"Uh..yeah, I didn't want a drink. Can I…make a call?" Good one, George. She mentally kicked herself for her own stupidity. Really? She couldn't come up with a better reason than that? What teenager didn't have a cell phone these days?

Apparently, the bartender didn't seem too impressed either. He just raised a pierced eyebrow as he continued drying the glass in his hand.

"My car broke down just down the street and I need to call someone."

Still bad, but believable. The bartender considered for a moment, then set the glass down and nodded her over. "Five minutes." He promised, producing an old rotary phone from under the counter and placing it on the bar.

The girl smiled awkwardly in thanks and walked over to have a seat. Shit, now she had to actually call someone. Great. The clock above the large mirror behind the bar told her she still had another 12 minutes to kill (no pun intended). Staring back down at the rotary, she was considering her options when fate intervened.

The bar door opened again, and for the second time that day an underage minor entered the establishment. George didn't like him the second she laid eyes on him. He was a tall boy who was too hot for his own good, sporting a letterman jacket and a Mohawk.

Seriously, who the fuck still wears a Mohawk in 2011?

"What the hell are you doing here?" The barkeep glared at the boy who just grinned and gave the man a nod, sidling up to the bar and finding his seat a couple stools down from George.

"Well, I was gonna tell you that mom still hasn't gotten that check you promised her two months ago, but I think I'll just save it and ask what the heck you think you're doing back in town." Despite the kid's tone, he had a lazy grin as he addressed the older man.

"I sent that check out weeks ago, it's not my fault it got lost in the mail."

"Again?" The kid raised his eyebrow and George couldn't help but notice an eerie (if not creepy) resemblance between him and the older man. She sensed a family conflict here and immediately her reaper instincts kicked in. Disgruntled son and deadbeat dad fighting about money. It sounded about right. She slowly put down the phone and looked between the two men as they seemed to be involved in some kind of glaring stand-off. She wasn't alone.

Of the four other patrons, three were now looking at the arguing father and son due. The fourth was getting up to go to the crapper. Or maybe get the hell out of Dodge, George wasn't quite sure.

"Look, kid, I told you last time we talked that I'm mending my ways. I've got a job, now and I even pay rent-"

"Just not child support."

The bartender rolled his eyes and leaned closer to the Mohawked youth to hiss. "I'm doing the best I can, boy. And your mom makes more than enough for you and the brat!"

The teenager bristled at the term and suddenly, the bartender found the kid's hands on his collar, almost pulling him over the bar as he hissed. "Don't you ever refer to her like that again, you got it?"

Clearly, Deadbeat Dad hit a soft spot for his estranged son, but rather than act apologetic or afraid, the older man smirked at his offspring and scoffed. "Or what? You gonna teach me a lesson, son? "

This was usually the part of the story where someone did something really stupid, really rash, or both. George preferred to stay away from things when they started to get confrontational. Far, far, away. It was her experience that arguments like these usually ended up violent and messy. And she hadn't brought a poncho today.

Mohawk tensed, but said nothing. The reaper glanced down at her watch; 4:21. She still had two minutes. Usually, this would be about the time she popped the soul. The only problem was she didn't know which one of these guys was N. Puckerman- even if it was one of them!

Fucking great…

Well, one way to find out. "Hey, Puckerman!" George almost winced when both men looked over, glaring at the blond as if seeing her for the first time. Mohawk smirked a bit at the surprised look George gave them. She swallowed. "I uh..nevermind."

Not her finest moment. Something caught the corner of her eye and George glanced over in time to catch the graveling disappearing behind the bar and she slowly got up to take a step back as she noticed the older man reaching underneath the counter.

The younger had turned back to the old man, giving him a once over then shaking his head and stepping back. "This is your last chance, or else."

"Or else, what?"

"Or else I tell her you're back in town. And I tell the cops." Mohawk knew he had something when he saw that flash in his father's eyes. He smirked and started to step back toward the door when suddenly, the bartender pulled out a shotgun from behind the counter, aiming it at the boy. Everyone froze, including George. It was one thing to be a Deadbeat Dad, but this was a whole new level of fucked up.

"You wanna say that again, son?" The man smiled behind the weapon and Mohawk stared, clearly ready to piss himself. George knew how this was gonna end, and she wondered if she could discretely move closer to brush past the boy before anything happened.

"You wouldn't."

"Wanna bet? What else have I got to lose?" George had stepped back, arms raised, pretending to walk toward the door without saying a word when she suddenly saw the gun aimed at her. And she stopped in confusion, her fear turning to irritation.

"Oh, come on! What did I do?" The girl all but rolled her eyes at the Deadbeat who sounded way too calm for the situation.

"Sorry, Missy, but you're not going anywhere until we settle this. I suggest you get down."

Mohawk had had enough, he was glaring at the man. "What's your problem? You gotta bring innocent people into this? What the fuck are you think-!"

Apparently, short fuses ran in the family because the younger had just started to step forward again with a glare on his face when a loud bang rang through the bar. All eyes were on the boy, who stood in shock for a moment before falling forward.

George had guessed wrong.

The body of Deadbeat Dad slumped over the counter, his gun falling with him. It had misfired...and sent the top of his head and most of his brain matter into the shelves and mirror behind him. The reaper barely had time to register what had happened before she heard the sound of someone dry heaving beneath her, and her eyes went down to see Mohawk upchucking on her shoes.

Gross.

A scream ripped through the bar finally as the waitress finally reacted and then everything seemed to move at once. Patrons were rushing out, an old man who'd been sitting at the bar was dialing 911, and George stepped over the vomiting kid to brush a hand on the dead man's…

"What the fuck!", the soul beside her stared in shock at himself. She was surprised he could say anything at all. He had a good chunk of his skull missing, including an eye. Then again, you probably didn't need you brain after you're dead, did you? "Fuck..is that..is that me? What the fuck happened?"

This guy was gonna give George a run for her money in the swearing department.

"That's what happens when you threaten your kid with a shotgun, asshole." Really, there were some souls she cared about, and others…well, let's just say George just wanted to see them gone sooner rather than later.

"I wasn't gonna shoot him! My finger wasn't even on the trigger, it just went off." He'd moved closer to bend down by his body, looking into his bloody head. George made a face at the soul's morbid curiosity then looked over at the poor boy, who was now being comforted by the waitress. The poor tough guy was in tears, looking anywhere but at the body. It didn't take a genius to know he had to get out of there. The woman led him out the door and George actually felt sorry for the guy…Mohawk and all.

"This fucking sucks." The words never seemed truer.

George gave a little nod then looked at the disfigured soul, avoiding eye contact and clearing her throat. "C'mon, let's get you out of here."

"Wait..what's that..?" The reaper didn't have time to look over her shoulder. She heard the sound of what sounded like some kind of bad bar music and catcalls, and then, nothing. Looking over her shoulder, the soul was gone and she realized it didn't take him long to move on.

Well, she wasn't the one to judge the afterlife. Far from it. She was actually relieved he'd been that easy to get rid of, he was kind of starting to gross her out. Without another word, George tried to discretely exit the bar, making a face at the puke and brain matter on her shoe and praying she could get out of there before the cops showed up.

No such luck. No sooner had she stepped outside than an ambulance pulled up to the sidewalk along with two cop cars. She noticed Mohawk sitting on the curb, the waitress having her arm around him, the kid staring down at the street and George realized what he'd just been through was probably going to mess him up for a long time. She felt bad for him, even if he did ruin her favorite pair of Chucks.

She longed to just leave him there, to go home, toss her shoes and get a long hot shower. But, for some reason (and against her better judgment), she found herself sitting down beside him on the curb as he stared ahead. The woman looked over at her and offered a small smile, and George tried to smile back, hugging her knees to herself. Eventually, the waitress got up to go talk to the cops and George spoke.

"That um….it wasn't your fault- I mean…he wasn't gonna shoot you. He didn't even have his finger on the trigger."

Okay, wrong thing to say. The boy shot her a look before it turned into a glare. "How the hell do you know?"

"I uh..saw." She looked down again. Jesus, what was wrong with her this week? She kept talking to the wrong kids at the wrong time. This is exactly why I never wanted to go back to high school.

The kid closed his eyes and muttered. "I wouldn't put it past him to try it…that's why my mom kicked him out in the first place. Cause he was an asshole who used to hit her around." The boy sat up straighter, trying to look tougher than he obviously felt, like he didn't care that he'd just witnessed his father's accidental suicide. Strangely enough, George could relate.

"Yeah, well…nobody's perfect?" That got her a strange look from Mohawk and George smirked a little and looked away again. "I'm just saying maybe it was just his time. Like some fucked up twist of fate. Maybe you just shouldn't spent your life thinking about it..especially if he was such an ass, anyway."

"…I just watched my father fucking blow his brains out and you're saying I shouldn't give a shit about it?"

"Yeah! I mean…no..? I mean…fuck it, never mind." The reaper sighed and pushed herself up, but Mohawk kept watching her as she got to her feet, grabbing her bag from beside her. He seemed to notice for the first time and asked.

"So where do you go to school?"

George had to do a double take to make sure he was talking to her, staring a moment- wait…was he smirking? She looked around at the cops, the ambulance workers carrying out the body back, then him. He didn't seem to be paying attention to any of it. And she was about to say she didn't when she realized, technically, she did. "McKinley. William McKinley High…at least, as of today."

The guy's grin only grew wider as he looked over his shoulder then back at George. "You wanna get outta here?"

George was sure that was probably a bad idea. The cops were busy talking to the other bar witnesses and giving the boy some space based on their testimony. No one seemed to notice the two teenagers talking. She looked back at him with a bewildered expression and shook her head.

"I don't think that's such a good idea…"

"Oh, c'mon…you know you want to. I know a place down the street that might even sell us beer if the right guy's working." He actually looked rather proud of that fact in his own, underage, suave way. George was now completely out of her element. She wanted to laugh at the guy, but he'd just watched his father die in front of him. Strangely enough, it reminded her of another reap she'd done almost a couple years ago. That one hadn't ended very well for her, but Daisy had said it was because she expected too much from the guy. This kid was still in high school…then again, so was she. Sort of. Really, what could a drink hurt? She technically had just reaped his father's soul- in a way, she owed him.

And the fact that he was kinda hot didn't hurt either. Even if he DID puke on her.

A slow smile and an small nod. "Fine! You owe me for ruining my favorite shoes, anyway."

The kid looked down at her feet then smirked and gave a nod. Fair enough. He was up and didn't even give the cops a glance as he nodded for her to follow. George did so, sparing the officers only a brief glance before they started down the street.

"So…what's your name?" The kid asked sticking his hands in his jacket pocket as George fell into step beside him.

"Millie Hart. How about you, Mohawk?"

"Noah Puckerman…but, everyone's calls me Puck."