Barstool Sessions
Shake, Rattle, and Roll
Ben sat in his apartment, the phone sat against his ear, as it
had been for the last two hours.
"Come on Denis. Let me come back to New York. I can't take
working with Rick much longer. He's driving what little sanity I have
away." Ben took a deep breath and sighed. "Denis, please. I told you
when you gave me this job that I was NOT cut out for the LA life."
"And I told you, Ben, that I NEED you out there. No one else can
run that place like you can. I know you and Rick don't get along well.
He's called me five times this month begging me to take you back."
"Then why won't you?" Ben almost whined.
"Because you're more useful to me over there right now."
Ben ran a hand through his long auburn hair, which was not in its
characteristic ponytail. He knew it was time to play one of his two
trump cards. "Denis. Look, take me back. I'll even go back to my old
salary. No stocks, no ownership, no increased payment. Please."
Denis was quiet for a few minutes as he thought it over. "Ben."
Ben smiled happily. "Hai?"
"Give me a few days to think it over."
Ben's smile gave way to a deep frown. "Alright. I'll call you
before New Year's." Ben disconnected the call as he placed the phone
back on the charger.
With a deep sigh Ben fell back and lay down on his couch. He
stared up at the ceiling and placed his hands behind his head. In a
small and almost insecure voice Ben spoke. "An unfamiliar ceiling."
Ben yawned as he leaned against the bar. He'd gotten stuck
running the lunch shift. Ben stifled another yawn as he looked at the
mostly empty room. Ben hadn't run a lunch shift since he was eighteen.
The door opened sending a sharp beam of sunlight into the dank
room. Ben glared and dropped his sunglasses into place. "Close the
DOOR!!!" The two men standing in the doorway steeped into the room.
They gave the tavern a silent look as if searching for something before
making their way to the bar.
Ben glared at the two men sitting at his bar. He didn't like the
sight of them. Both were clean cut, wearing fine tailored suits, with
stylish haircuts, and slight bulges revealing pistols under the
jackets. Ben smirked to himself as he reached under the bar and
gripped the handle of his katana.
"What can I do for you boys?" Ben sugarcoated his voice as best
possible. He knew gangsters and Mob when he saw them. Growing up on
an island that had once been a pirate haven did that for someone.
The taller of the two men, an Asian in a black suit, smiled. "We
need to see Rick." His English was nearly perfect, his Chinese accent
giving it a slight singsong edge.
Ben actually glared. "That fuck off ain't here." Ben's thick
Southern accent was in full swing. "Don' know when 'e'll be 'ere, an
ah don' care. Now if ya'll want ah'll get yaz a drink."
The shorter man, a black man in a white suit, smiled. "Long
Island would ya?" He spoke like a LA native, fast and to the point.
Ben nodded and looked at the Asian. "A mai tai, please. And I
would greatly wish to speak to Mr. Rick."
Ben turned his back and began on the drinks. "An ah told ya. 'e
ain't 'ere. An ah ain't got no idea when 'e'll get here either." Ben
turned and dropped the quickly maid mai tai on the bar. "Four dollars,
each a ya."
The Asian withdrew a fifty from his wallet. "Would this help jog
your memory as to where I may find Mr. Rick?"
Ben grabbed the bill and glared. "I don't take bribes." His
anger was under control and he'd regained his more articulate speech
patterns. "Now, if you want I can give him a message."
The Asian nodded to his partner. The black man stood and made
his way behind the bar. In a fluid motion he slid his arm behind a row
of glasses and knocked them to the ground.
"Oops," the man shrugged and smirked. "Sorry 'bout that.
Accident you know, they happen."
Ben looked at the broken glass. He looked to the Asian man who
was extinguishing a cigarette butt on the bar top. A rage of hatred
began welling up in the young island bartender.
The Rolling Stones "Street Fighting Man" began playing on the
jukebox. It seemed to blend into the background.
In a single motion Ben had removed his sword and swung it out at
the black man. The other man had no time to move, and found his left
hand falling to the floor of the bar. In fluid reaction, Ben pivoted
on his left foot and held the katana at the Asian's throat. "Get out
of MY bar! NOW!"
To emphasize his point Ben jerked the impossibly sharp blade,
cutting the man's silk tie in half, also cutting a line across his
shirt and suit jacket. "GO!" Ben's thick voice was reverberating with
hatred and anger.
The Asian stood slowly, taking his time to measure up the
bartender. Without a second thought he turned and walked out of the
bar, not worrying about his partner. At the door the Asian turned and
looked at Ben. "This is not over, not by far."
Ben growled. "You watch too many movies. Get your partner and
LEAVE!!" Ben stepped up and kicked the black man in his chest. "Stop
bleeding on my floor."
The black man looked up at Ben, even with the sunglasses down the
man could see the seething hatred burning in Ben's ice blue eyes.
Without care he turned, holding his hand close, and ran for the door.
Ben picked up a clean towel and wiped the blood and tiny bits of
bone fragments off the blade. Ben sheathed the sword and looked at the
severed hand on the floor. Using the bar towel, Ben bent down and
picked the hand up. Carelessly he tossed it in a trashcan, still
wrapped in the towel.
Ben looked around the bar. "Fucking gangs. Ever since the
fucking Godfather everyone thinks they're the fucking mob." Ben's gaze
stopped on the broken bottles of tequila, whiskey, scotch, and various
other drinks. Ben dragged in a strong breath and let out a string of
curses ranging from Spanish, Japanese, English, Celtic, and Cantonese.
Rick opened the door to the bar as the triad of curses began. He
was stopped in his tracks as he listened to the young man behind the
bar expunge more profanity than he knew existed. Rick's jaw dropped to
the floor as he caught a few of the Spanish and English phrases.
A man in his mid-forties sat at the bar counting on his fingers.
After a few minutes he looked at the young man behind the bar that had
just spent an untold time cursing. With a smile he looked to the man
to his left. "Four hundred twenty-four. You lose."
The Latino man next to him reached into his pocket and withdrew a
wad of bills. "Damn, I didn't know there were that many curses."
The old man smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. "Yep. And he
didn't even repeat any. Kid's articulate. I counted five languages."
The Latino handed the old man the money and sighed. "Fuck. What
is he some kind of fucking ninja linguist?"
Ben looked to the two men seated at the bar. "Nope. I'm just a
bartender with a love of swords." He smirked and began looking for the
mop and broom.
Rick stood in the doorway as he watched Ben cleaning up the blood
and alcohol. He was still slightly in shock from hearing his bartender
yelling and cursing in more languages than he knew.
Ben swept up some of the broken glass and bone fragments. "Sorry
sons of diseased whores. Who do they think they are coming into MY bar
demanding shit like that!" Ben swept the glass into a wastebasket. "I
hate LA. I hate California. I hate mobsters. Fucking goat humping
dog lovers."
Ben stood up and wiped his hands off. Seeing Rick standing in
the corner in shock he shrugged and picked up the mai tia. He emptied
the glass and put it in the back to be washed. Ben came back with a
case of bottles and began replacing the broken ones.
Rick watched as Ben had switched from an hatred driven, near
semi-crazed, raving lunatic into a calm almost happy bartender. If he
didn't know any better he'd think that Ben was high on something, but
he could see a tinge of anger every time he looked at the back wall.
Denis would have never hired Ben nor kept him on for this length of
time if he was an addict to anything more than tobacco, alcohol, and
caffeine.
Though he could tell the young man also had an obsession with
leather, but wouldn't exactly call it an addiction, no matter if he did
value it over human life at times.
Rick regained use of his voice and bellowed. "BEN!"
Ben looked over his shoulder at Rick. "Be right with you Rick."
He tapped off a mug and placed it before the old man. "ya fuckin' Cali
actor wanna be shit hole" he mumbled to himself. The old man chuckled
as he looked at Ben. Ben smirked at the man knowing he'd been heard.
Rick sat at the bar with Ben standing before him. Ben had
rehashed the tale of the two mobsters. Just to play with Rick Ben even
went into detail of their clothes, mixing the drinks, and even the
man's screams after he'd lost his hand. Antagonizing the older man Ben
even began to recite the many different curses he'd spoken and
explaining the language and literal translations behind them.
Rick held up his hand after the thirty-fifth curse. "I get it
Ben, you were pissed. You do understand the man can press you for
aggravated assault and battery?"
Ben shrugged. "The cops can bust him for destroying private
property, attempted extortion, and carrying an unlicensed handgun."
Rick looked at Ben. "What do you mean, from what you say he
never pulled a gun."
"Nope, he didn't. But he's got one. Biggin' too. Had to be at
least a .233 compact. Anything firing bigger than a .50 caliber is an
illegal weapon, unless its buckshot." Ben lifted his bottle of
Geniuses and took a long drink. "Anyway guys like that don't register
their handguns."
Rick slammed his fist on the bar. "That's not the point. He can
sue you and us. You'll be sitting in a cell before the week's out."
Ben shrugged and took another drink. "Won't be a first. Believe
me Rick, I've done worse with my sword than cut a fucking mobster
wannabe's hand off."
Rick glared at the younger man. "Dammit Ben! What are you an
idiot. Do you know how this is going to make me look?!"
"Fuck you Rick. I don't give a damn about your image. Mr.
Leary, now I might worry about him and how this reflects on the bar.
But you Rick, you can suck off a horse for all I care. You're too
wrapped up in how others see you than in running this bar! Maybe if
you hadn't been off fucking that slut you call an agent you might have
been here and prevented this!"
Rick jumped to his feet. "Jenna is NOT a slut!! You're out of
here. Go home! I don't want to see you until you can control
yourself! GET!" Rick pointed at the door.
Not being one to argue Ben shrugged and drained his beer.
Turning on his heel the island boy walked to the back room and
retrieved his coat. Ben stopped by the bar and retrieved his sword,
strapping it upside down on his back and covered it with his duster.
Ben waved to the old man at the bar and walked into the glaring
sunlight.
A few days passed before Ben returned to the bar. He used the
days off to call Denis and Sheila to tell them his side of the story.
Denis informed Ben that he was not coming back to New York unless he
learned anger management or the bar burned to the ground.
Ben looked at the clock on his TV and sighed. He was due at the
bar in an hour and was not looking forward to it. There had been
little tremors all day and Ben was nervous. Being an island child
earthquakes were a new thing, but his neighbors didn't even seem to
notice.
Ben grabbed his duster and slid it on over his navy blue satin
shirt and katana. Sliding his mirrored sunglasses on Ben walked out
the door and headed towards McLeary's.
Rick sat at one of the tables "discussing" his "acting career"
with a young blonde woman in a tight red spandex dress. Rick's eyes
could not move from her cleavage, which seemed ready to fall out of the
dress. So he missed seeing Ben enter the tavern.
Ben walked in and closed the door behind himself. Seeing Rick
off in a corner Ben smirked as he removed his coat and sword. He hung
the coat in the back and placed the sword under the bar next to the
baseball bat and twelve gauge shotgun mandatory in every McLeary's
Tavern the world over.
Ben took up his spot behind the bar and smiled at the old man.
"Hey Josè. Usual?"
The old man smiled. "You're good Ben."
"Not really. You've ordered the same thing everyday since I've
come here." Ben grabbed a mug and began filling it with Samuel Adams
beer. "So Josè, those guys from the other day. Have you seen 'em?"
Josè shook his head. "Sorry Ben. Not since you played hockey
with that guy's hand."
Ben grinned and handed over the mug. "It wasn't hockey...more of
tennis. Seeing as I used a backhand technique."
Josè grinned. "You're crazy man." He took a tentative sip of
the frothy liquid and smiled. "Much better. Whoever was working here
while you were gone somehow made this stuff bitter. I have no idea
how, but that swill was the worst I've ever had."
Ben nodded. "I'm not a big fan of Sam Adams, more a Guinness
lover myself."
Josè nodded and sipped his drink.
At that moment the ground began to shake gently. Ben freaked and
grabbed the bar. Josè held onto his glass and smiled at the young
tanned man standing before him. The quake was over as quickly as it
had begun.
Josè looked at Ben. "First quake?"
Ben nodded. "Y-y-yeah..."
Josè chuckled. "I can tell. You're not a West Coast person are
you?" He sipped his beer and looked the younger man over.
Ben shook his head, causing his thick ponytail to land on his
left shoulder. "Fuck no. I hate it out here. Smog in every breath
you take, import cars everywhere you look, useless people on every
other street, and don't get me started on the actors." Ben growled
slightly, actually baring his teeth.
Josè leaned back a bit. "Shit, you really DON'T like California,
kid." Josè leaned in close. "So why're you here if you don't like
this coast?"
Ben sighed. "You remember the guy that got gunned down a few
months back who used to run the place?"
Josè looked up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at
Ben. "You mean Marco?"
Ben nodded as he picked up a bottle of vodka and a shaker. "Yep.
Well when he died Mr. Leary, the owner, called me in on my day off. He
told me I'm moving to LA that weekend, and the rest is history." Ben
poured out the vodka and grapefruit juice mix and slid it down the bar.
Josè shook his head. "I'm sorry man."
Ben shrugged. "Don't be. I'll survive."
The slightest signs of a tremor could be felt in the floor for a
few minutes. Then almost like a tsunami hitting Japan, a quick and
forceful tremor shook the bar to its foundation for a minute, causing a
few patrons to look around before returning to their conversations.
Ben gripped the bar so tight his knuckles began to turn white in
his deeply suntanned skin. A few moments after the tremor subsided did
the bartender let go of the bar and return to work.
The night droned on with little or no problems. A few little
shakes came and went, eventually Ben adjusted to them. The customer
ratio was down a tad, but the bar was still reasonably full. Somewhere
around midnight an African-America man in a stylish gray Armani suit
with black driving gloves entered the bar.
The man strode upto the bar and asked to use the restroom. Ben
stood with his back to the man as he looked over a chart of drinks
looking for something. He pointed upstairs, "Go up and to the right.
Can't miss it." The man thanked him and was off.
The man stood in the stall and shook himself. For some reason he
felt something was wrong and looked down. In his left, and only hand,
he held his penis and testicles. With a horrified scream the man
dropped his sexual organs on the floor and backed out of the stall.
Ben looked at Josè. "Did you hear something?"
Josè shook his head. "Nope."
Ben shrugged and returned to making a Cherry Spritzer with a Gin
and Vodka twist.
The man looked down at his body in horror. He almost screamed
again, but something struck him. The man behind the bar was the same
man that had cut his hand off less than a week ago. He also remembered
his partner's reaction as they left the bar that day.
The Chinese man had been very frightened by something the
bartender had said. Especially when he told his partner that the
bartender had cursed them. The black man had laughed it off saying
he'd been cussed at before, his joke received a back handed slap from
his Chinese partner and an explanation that the bartender hadn't been
cussing at them, he had CURSED them.
The man zipped his pant and adjusted his clothes as he removed
the silenced Glock 9mm from under his suit jacket. With a sadistic
grin he took aim at the auburn haired bartender behind the bar.
Ben looked at the wall behind the bar in a vain attempt to find a
bottle of brandy. "AH HAH! There you are." Ben knelt down and picked
up a well-aged bottle from the bottom rack. As he knelt down he missed
the bullet that had been aimed at him, causing the projectile to hit
the back wall.
Ben brushed his knees off as he placed the bottle on the bar and
began looking for a proper sized snifter. Ben sidestepped and nearly
fell over as he reached for the glass, another bullet whizzed by him
imbedding in the floor. Ben pulled the glass down and filled it
halfway before handing it to a man in a three-piece suit.
The eunuch at the top of the stairs grumbled as he took aim once
more at the young bartender. "This is for giving my partner boils."
He took aim and pulled the trigger hitting Josè's mug shattering it
across the bar.
Ben looked at the shattered glass and ducked behind the bar.
"FUCK!!!" Ben wrapped his hands around his head as he leaned against
the bar. "Why me?!" A pair of bullet holes appeared inches from Ben's
crotch.
The island bartender's eyes flew open then slowly narrowed into a
glare. "Sheist! What'd I do ta this guy?" Ben began patting down his
sides and chest as he looked for something he could use as a weapon.
"Figures I give up my Eagles for an honorable weapon, and I'm too far
out of range to use my sword."
Voices could be heard screaming and yelling in the background as
the bar began to empty out. Chairs tipped over, glasses and bottles
where thrown aside shattering on the floor, tables were overturned, and
people streamed out the door.
Mentally Ben began counting up how much this little escapade
would cost to replace the broken glasses and tables, and how much time
Ben would need to clean the bar. Ben slammed his fist on the floor as
the numbers ran into multiple paychecks, with overtime.
"You fucking shit fucker. How could you do this to me?!" The
voice yelled from the floor above.
Ben yelled back. "Do what?!"
"My goddamn balls fell off!"
Ben's brows raised in curiosity. "Huh?" His eyes flew open in
realization, just before he began laughing his ass off. "Holy SHIT!
You mean the fucking spell actually worked?!" Ben howled with
laughter.
Two more bullet holes appeared in the floor killing Ben's
laughter. "You fucking psycho! I'm gonna kill you!"
Ben reached under the bar and removed his katana. "Come and get
me asswipe. I need a good fight."
A fight would have occurred at this exact moment but the author
deemed that the dramatic tension has built up enough. So instead this
has happened.
Earth: A thing of life, a thing of poetry, a source of creation,
a living entity that is constantly in flux. Earthquake: a source of
destruction, devastation, and death, the movement of Terra causing
tremors.
The ground rippled as if life had been given to it, and it was
pissed. Waves of gravel, asphalt, and cement began shifting. The
walls of the tavern swayed with the movement of the ground.
Ben crawled across the dirty ground clutching his sword as he
tried to make his way to the back room. Bullets whizzed by ripping
holes in the hardwood floor. After a few feet Ben jumped up and made a
run for the back room.
Ben grabbed his duster and slid it on. He leaned against the
wall breathing rapidly. The ground under his feet rippled and moved as
if it had a mind of its own. "Dammit! The only thing that should
ripple underneath me is a fucking WAVE, not the DAMN ground!!" Ben
stood in the threshold of the storeroom, using and enjoying the minimal
protection it provided.
That was until the front half of the tavern began sinking into
the ground. Rafters, studs, ceiling, walls, racks...everything began
breaking and cracking as the quake continued to rip up the ground and
throw people, cars, and buildings into its shifting abyss.
Seeing a break in the building Ben made a desperate sprint for
the outside. Seconds clicked by like hours as the bartender made his
run. As soon as it started it was over and Ben was outside.
Ben stood up from his roll and looked at the building where he'd
just slaved away four months of his life. McLeary's Tavern slowly
began sinking into the ground as the quake continued. Ben slapped his
forehead as he watched the back of the building sinking. "DAMN! I
left the gas..."
Ben's monologue was cut short by the fiery explosion enveloped
the building. Ben ducked down and covered his head with his duster as
the bar exploded causing the different liquors to catch fire. Ben
stood and uncovered his head as he heard sirens going off in the
distance.
"...on." Ben fell to the uneven ground and lay back waiting on
the police and fire department. Right now all Ben cared about was a
nap. A nice long nap on a secluded beach in Key West. "Yeah...sleep
in the sun. Watch the gang surf and tan. Yeah, just like the old
days." Ben rolled over on his side and dozed off.
A man in a black duster and red silk shirt walked up. His
platinum blonde hair shown in the dim light provided by the police.
"Bloody hell, guess its back to Sunnydale for me." The man's British
accent was thick and easily noticeable, along with his hair he looked
like a subdued Billy Idol.
Epilogue
Ben woke up to persistent poking of something on his chest.
Groggily Ben pushed the offending object away. "Five more..." lazily
he rolled over and tried to return to sleep.
Robbie looked down at his baking friend and sighed. "Aw what the
hell, why not." He lifted the phone to his ear. "Mr. Leary? Ben's
busy at the moment, can I have him call you back? Alright. Your home
number? He's got it? Okay, sure thing, bye." Robbie closed the phone
and lay back on the white sand and slowly returned to his nap. "Its
good havin' ya home bro."
Ben smiled slightly and mumbled in his sleep. "Home."
*Chibi Dude Slayer pulls off sunglasses and waves*
CDS: *puts glasses back on and takes a sip from an umbrella drink
on a nearby table* Yo! The boss wanted me to say that The Barstool
Sessions is over. That's right this was the last fic in the Barstool
Sessions, but that doesn't mean Ben's gone back to Key West to retire.
*Chibi Vampboy jumps on camera*
CVB: Hell no! Stay tuned for Barstool Sessions: Season 2:
Welcome to Jersey. A compilation of stories dealing with characters
from Kevin Smith's infamous "Jersey Trilogy"; Clerks, Mallrats, and
Chasing Amy.
*Chibi Dude Slayer grabs camera*
CDS: Stay tuned. Also, keep a look out. Another of The Dude
Slayer's friends will be making an appearance. He's promised her the
chance to help out one of the characters. Ain't he a nice guy?
CVB: If you say so. I say he wants to jump her bones.
*The Dude Slayer walks onstage his duster flapping at all times*
*TDS grabs CVB and begins shoving stakes into his hands and feet,
attaching him to the floor*
TDS: How many times must we go through this. Meatspace and
Cyberspace never meet, correct?
CVB: *nods* Yeah...
TDS: *lights a match and drops it on CVB* Then why did you say
something stupid?
CVB: *screams in pain* Cuz you DO!
*Vampboy walks onstage, his duster does not flap*
VB: What's up? Uh, Chibi Vamp, why are you on the ground?
CVB: Dude Slayer got pissed cuz I said something about Meatspace.
VB: Oh you mean about him wanting to jump...
*TDS duct tapes Vampboy's mouth*
TDS: Try ME! *looks at camera* Stay tuned. Next time Ben's
going to take a few days off back home in Key West before returning to
New York. Oh, and Sheila WILL return. Final note, I don't own Spike.
Joss Whedon does.
So finally, visit my site or drop me a line.
http://the_dude_slayer.tripod.com/Home.html
redrum124@bigfoot.com
Ja ne.
*a phone rings*
*Ben picks up*
Ben: Moshi, moshi?
Denis: Ben, its Denis. I was just wondering something.
Ben: What's that?
Denis: Did you burn my bar down?
Shake, Rattle, and Roll
Ben sat in his apartment, the phone sat against his ear, as it
had been for the last two hours.
"Come on Denis. Let me come back to New York. I can't take
working with Rick much longer. He's driving what little sanity I have
away." Ben took a deep breath and sighed. "Denis, please. I told you
when you gave me this job that I was NOT cut out for the LA life."
"And I told you, Ben, that I NEED you out there. No one else can
run that place like you can. I know you and Rick don't get along well.
He's called me five times this month begging me to take you back."
"Then why won't you?" Ben almost whined.
"Because you're more useful to me over there right now."
Ben ran a hand through his long auburn hair, which was not in its
characteristic ponytail. He knew it was time to play one of his two
trump cards. "Denis. Look, take me back. I'll even go back to my old
salary. No stocks, no ownership, no increased payment. Please."
Denis was quiet for a few minutes as he thought it over. "Ben."
Ben smiled happily. "Hai?"
"Give me a few days to think it over."
Ben's smile gave way to a deep frown. "Alright. I'll call you
before New Year's." Ben disconnected the call as he placed the phone
back on the charger.
With a deep sigh Ben fell back and lay down on his couch. He
stared up at the ceiling and placed his hands behind his head. In a
small and almost insecure voice Ben spoke. "An unfamiliar ceiling."
Ben yawned as he leaned against the bar. He'd gotten stuck
running the lunch shift. Ben stifled another yawn as he looked at the
mostly empty room. Ben hadn't run a lunch shift since he was eighteen.
The door opened sending a sharp beam of sunlight into the dank
room. Ben glared and dropped his sunglasses into place. "Close the
DOOR!!!" The two men standing in the doorway steeped into the room.
They gave the tavern a silent look as if searching for something before
making their way to the bar.
Ben glared at the two men sitting at his bar. He didn't like the
sight of them. Both were clean cut, wearing fine tailored suits, with
stylish haircuts, and slight bulges revealing pistols under the
jackets. Ben smirked to himself as he reached under the bar and
gripped the handle of his katana.
"What can I do for you boys?" Ben sugarcoated his voice as best
possible. He knew gangsters and Mob when he saw them. Growing up on
an island that had once been a pirate haven did that for someone.
The taller of the two men, an Asian in a black suit, smiled. "We
need to see Rick." His English was nearly perfect, his Chinese accent
giving it a slight singsong edge.
Ben actually glared. "That fuck off ain't here." Ben's thick
Southern accent was in full swing. "Don' know when 'e'll be 'ere, an
ah don' care. Now if ya'll want ah'll get yaz a drink."
The shorter man, a black man in a white suit, smiled. "Long
Island would ya?" He spoke like a LA native, fast and to the point.
Ben nodded and looked at the Asian. "A mai tai, please. And I
would greatly wish to speak to Mr. Rick."
Ben turned his back and began on the drinks. "An ah told ya. 'e
ain't 'ere. An ah ain't got no idea when 'e'll get here either." Ben
turned and dropped the quickly maid mai tai on the bar. "Four dollars,
each a ya."
The Asian withdrew a fifty from his wallet. "Would this help jog
your memory as to where I may find Mr. Rick?"
Ben grabbed the bill and glared. "I don't take bribes." His
anger was under control and he'd regained his more articulate speech
patterns. "Now, if you want I can give him a message."
The Asian nodded to his partner. The black man stood and made
his way behind the bar. In a fluid motion he slid his arm behind a row
of glasses and knocked them to the ground.
"Oops," the man shrugged and smirked. "Sorry 'bout that.
Accident you know, they happen."
Ben looked at the broken glass. He looked to the Asian man who
was extinguishing a cigarette butt on the bar top. A rage of hatred
began welling up in the young island bartender.
The Rolling Stones "Street Fighting Man" began playing on the
jukebox. It seemed to blend into the background.
In a single motion Ben had removed his sword and swung it out at
the black man. The other man had no time to move, and found his left
hand falling to the floor of the bar. In fluid reaction, Ben pivoted
on his left foot and held the katana at the Asian's throat. "Get out
of MY bar! NOW!"
To emphasize his point Ben jerked the impossibly sharp blade,
cutting the man's silk tie in half, also cutting a line across his
shirt and suit jacket. "GO!" Ben's thick voice was reverberating with
hatred and anger.
The Asian stood slowly, taking his time to measure up the
bartender. Without a second thought he turned and walked out of the
bar, not worrying about his partner. At the door the Asian turned and
looked at Ben. "This is not over, not by far."
Ben growled. "You watch too many movies. Get your partner and
LEAVE!!" Ben stepped up and kicked the black man in his chest. "Stop
bleeding on my floor."
The black man looked up at Ben, even with the sunglasses down the
man could see the seething hatred burning in Ben's ice blue eyes.
Without care he turned, holding his hand close, and ran for the door.
Ben picked up a clean towel and wiped the blood and tiny bits of
bone fragments off the blade. Ben sheathed the sword and looked at the
severed hand on the floor. Using the bar towel, Ben bent down and
picked the hand up. Carelessly he tossed it in a trashcan, still
wrapped in the towel.
Ben looked around the bar. "Fucking gangs. Ever since the
fucking Godfather everyone thinks they're the fucking mob." Ben's gaze
stopped on the broken bottles of tequila, whiskey, scotch, and various
other drinks. Ben dragged in a strong breath and let out a string of
curses ranging from Spanish, Japanese, English, Celtic, and Cantonese.
Rick opened the door to the bar as the triad of curses began. He
was stopped in his tracks as he listened to the young man behind the
bar expunge more profanity than he knew existed. Rick's jaw dropped to
the floor as he caught a few of the Spanish and English phrases.
A man in his mid-forties sat at the bar counting on his fingers.
After a few minutes he looked at the young man behind the bar that had
just spent an untold time cursing. With a smile he looked to the man
to his left. "Four hundred twenty-four. You lose."
The Latino man next to him reached into his pocket and withdrew a
wad of bills. "Damn, I didn't know there were that many curses."
The old man smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. "Yep. And he
didn't even repeat any. Kid's articulate. I counted five languages."
The Latino handed the old man the money and sighed. "Fuck. What
is he some kind of fucking ninja linguist?"
Ben looked to the two men seated at the bar. "Nope. I'm just a
bartender with a love of swords." He smirked and began looking for the
mop and broom.
Rick stood in the doorway as he watched Ben cleaning up the blood
and alcohol. He was still slightly in shock from hearing his bartender
yelling and cursing in more languages than he knew.
Ben swept up some of the broken glass and bone fragments. "Sorry
sons of diseased whores. Who do they think they are coming into MY bar
demanding shit like that!" Ben swept the glass into a wastebasket. "I
hate LA. I hate California. I hate mobsters. Fucking goat humping
dog lovers."
Ben stood up and wiped his hands off. Seeing Rick standing in
the corner in shock he shrugged and picked up the mai tia. He emptied
the glass and put it in the back to be washed. Ben came back with a
case of bottles and began replacing the broken ones.
Rick watched as Ben had switched from an hatred driven, near
semi-crazed, raving lunatic into a calm almost happy bartender. If he
didn't know any better he'd think that Ben was high on something, but
he could see a tinge of anger every time he looked at the back wall.
Denis would have never hired Ben nor kept him on for this length of
time if he was an addict to anything more than tobacco, alcohol, and
caffeine.
Though he could tell the young man also had an obsession with
leather, but wouldn't exactly call it an addiction, no matter if he did
value it over human life at times.
Rick regained use of his voice and bellowed. "BEN!"
Ben looked over his shoulder at Rick. "Be right with you Rick."
He tapped off a mug and placed it before the old man. "ya fuckin' Cali
actor wanna be shit hole" he mumbled to himself. The old man chuckled
as he looked at Ben. Ben smirked at the man knowing he'd been heard.
Rick sat at the bar with Ben standing before him. Ben had
rehashed the tale of the two mobsters. Just to play with Rick Ben even
went into detail of their clothes, mixing the drinks, and even the
man's screams after he'd lost his hand. Antagonizing the older man Ben
even began to recite the many different curses he'd spoken and
explaining the language and literal translations behind them.
Rick held up his hand after the thirty-fifth curse. "I get it
Ben, you were pissed. You do understand the man can press you for
aggravated assault and battery?"
Ben shrugged. "The cops can bust him for destroying private
property, attempted extortion, and carrying an unlicensed handgun."
Rick looked at Ben. "What do you mean, from what you say he
never pulled a gun."
"Nope, he didn't. But he's got one. Biggin' too. Had to be at
least a .233 compact. Anything firing bigger than a .50 caliber is an
illegal weapon, unless its buckshot." Ben lifted his bottle of
Geniuses and took a long drink. "Anyway guys like that don't register
their handguns."
Rick slammed his fist on the bar. "That's not the point. He can
sue you and us. You'll be sitting in a cell before the week's out."
Ben shrugged and took another drink. "Won't be a first. Believe
me Rick, I've done worse with my sword than cut a fucking mobster
wannabe's hand off."
Rick glared at the younger man. "Dammit Ben! What are you an
idiot. Do you know how this is going to make me look?!"
"Fuck you Rick. I don't give a damn about your image. Mr.
Leary, now I might worry about him and how this reflects on the bar.
But you Rick, you can suck off a horse for all I care. You're too
wrapped up in how others see you than in running this bar! Maybe if
you hadn't been off fucking that slut you call an agent you might have
been here and prevented this!"
Rick jumped to his feet. "Jenna is NOT a slut!! You're out of
here. Go home! I don't want to see you until you can control
yourself! GET!" Rick pointed at the door.
Not being one to argue Ben shrugged and drained his beer.
Turning on his heel the island boy walked to the back room and
retrieved his coat. Ben stopped by the bar and retrieved his sword,
strapping it upside down on his back and covered it with his duster.
Ben waved to the old man at the bar and walked into the glaring
sunlight.
A few days passed before Ben returned to the bar. He used the
days off to call Denis and Sheila to tell them his side of the story.
Denis informed Ben that he was not coming back to New York unless he
learned anger management or the bar burned to the ground.
Ben looked at the clock on his TV and sighed. He was due at the
bar in an hour and was not looking forward to it. There had been
little tremors all day and Ben was nervous. Being an island child
earthquakes were a new thing, but his neighbors didn't even seem to
notice.
Ben grabbed his duster and slid it on over his navy blue satin
shirt and katana. Sliding his mirrored sunglasses on Ben walked out
the door and headed towards McLeary's.
Rick sat at one of the tables "discussing" his "acting career"
with a young blonde woman in a tight red spandex dress. Rick's eyes
could not move from her cleavage, which seemed ready to fall out of the
dress. So he missed seeing Ben enter the tavern.
Ben walked in and closed the door behind himself. Seeing Rick
off in a corner Ben smirked as he removed his coat and sword. He hung
the coat in the back and placed the sword under the bar next to the
baseball bat and twelve gauge shotgun mandatory in every McLeary's
Tavern the world over.
Ben took up his spot behind the bar and smiled at the old man.
"Hey Josè. Usual?"
The old man smiled. "You're good Ben."
"Not really. You've ordered the same thing everyday since I've
come here." Ben grabbed a mug and began filling it with Samuel Adams
beer. "So Josè, those guys from the other day. Have you seen 'em?"
Josè shook his head. "Sorry Ben. Not since you played hockey
with that guy's hand."
Ben grinned and handed over the mug. "It wasn't hockey...more of
tennis. Seeing as I used a backhand technique."
Josè grinned. "You're crazy man." He took a tentative sip of
the frothy liquid and smiled. "Much better. Whoever was working here
while you were gone somehow made this stuff bitter. I have no idea
how, but that swill was the worst I've ever had."
Ben nodded. "I'm not a big fan of Sam Adams, more a Guinness
lover myself."
Josè nodded and sipped his drink.
At that moment the ground began to shake gently. Ben freaked and
grabbed the bar. Josè held onto his glass and smiled at the young
tanned man standing before him. The quake was over as quickly as it
had begun.
Josè looked at Ben. "First quake?"
Ben nodded. "Y-y-yeah..."
Josè chuckled. "I can tell. You're not a West Coast person are
you?" He sipped his beer and looked the younger man over.
Ben shook his head, causing his thick ponytail to land on his
left shoulder. "Fuck no. I hate it out here. Smog in every breath
you take, import cars everywhere you look, useless people on every
other street, and don't get me started on the actors." Ben growled
slightly, actually baring his teeth.
Josè leaned back a bit. "Shit, you really DON'T like California,
kid." Josè leaned in close. "So why're you here if you don't like
this coast?"
Ben sighed. "You remember the guy that got gunned down a few
months back who used to run the place?"
Josè looked up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at
Ben. "You mean Marco?"
Ben nodded as he picked up a bottle of vodka and a shaker. "Yep.
Well when he died Mr. Leary, the owner, called me in on my day off. He
told me I'm moving to LA that weekend, and the rest is history." Ben
poured out the vodka and grapefruit juice mix and slid it down the bar.
Josè shook his head. "I'm sorry man."
Ben shrugged. "Don't be. I'll survive."
The slightest signs of a tremor could be felt in the floor for a
few minutes. Then almost like a tsunami hitting Japan, a quick and
forceful tremor shook the bar to its foundation for a minute, causing a
few patrons to look around before returning to their conversations.
Ben gripped the bar so tight his knuckles began to turn white in
his deeply suntanned skin. A few moments after the tremor subsided did
the bartender let go of the bar and return to work.
The night droned on with little or no problems. A few little
shakes came and went, eventually Ben adjusted to them. The customer
ratio was down a tad, but the bar was still reasonably full. Somewhere
around midnight an African-America man in a stylish gray Armani suit
with black driving gloves entered the bar.
The man strode upto the bar and asked to use the restroom. Ben
stood with his back to the man as he looked over a chart of drinks
looking for something. He pointed upstairs, "Go up and to the right.
Can't miss it." The man thanked him and was off.
The man stood in the stall and shook himself. For some reason he
felt something was wrong and looked down. In his left, and only hand,
he held his penis and testicles. With a horrified scream the man
dropped his sexual organs on the floor and backed out of the stall.
Ben looked at Josè. "Did you hear something?"
Josè shook his head. "Nope."
Ben shrugged and returned to making a Cherry Spritzer with a Gin
and Vodka twist.
The man looked down at his body in horror. He almost screamed
again, but something struck him. The man behind the bar was the same
man that had cut his hand off less than a week ago. He also remembered
his partner's reaction as they left the bar that day.
The Chinese man had been very frightened by something the
bartender had said. Especially when he told his partner that the
bartender had cursed them. The black man had laughed it off saying
he'd been cussed at before, his joke received a back handed slap from
his Chinese partner and an explanation that the bartender hadn't been
cussing at them, he had CURSED them.
The man zipped his pant and adjusted his clothes as he removed
the silenced Glock 9mm from under his suit jacket. With a sadistic
grin he took aim at the auburn haired bartender behind the bar.
Ben looked at the wall behind the bar in a vain attempt to find a
bottle of brandy. "AH HAH! There you are." Ben knelt down and picked
up a well-aged bottle from the bottom rack. As he knelt down he missed
the bullet that had been aimed at him, causing the projectile to hit
the back wall.
Ben brushed his knees off as he placed the bottle on the bar and
began looking for a proper sized snifter. Ben sidestepped and nearly
fell over as he reached for the glass, another bullet whizzed by him
imbedding in the floor. Ben pulled the glass down and filled it
halfway before handing it to a man in a three-piece suit.
The eunuch at the top of the stairs grumbled as he took aim once
more at the young bartender. "This is for giving my partner boils."
He took aim and pulled the trigger hitting Josè's mug shattering it
across the bar.
Ben looked at the shattered glass and ducked behind the bar.
"FUCK!!!" Ben wrapped his hands around his head as he leaned against
the bar. "Why me?!" A pair of bullet holes appeared inches from Ben's
crotch.
The island bartender's eyes flew open then slowly narrowed into a
glare. "Sheist! What'd I do ta this guy?" Ben began patting down his
sides and chest as he looked for something he could use as a weapon.
"Figures I give up my Eagles for an honorable weapon, and I'm too far
out of range to use my sword."
Voices could be heard screaming and yelling in the background as
the bar began to empty out. Chairs tipped over, glasses and bottles
where thrown aside shattering on the floor, tables were overturned, and
people streamed out the door.
Mentally Ben began counting up how much this little escapade
would cost to replace the broken glasses and tables, and how much time
Ben would need to clean the bar. Ben slammed his fist on the floor as
the numbers ran into multiple paychecks, with overtime.
"You fucking shit fucker. How could you do this to me?!" The
voice yelled from the floor above.
Ben yelled back. "Do what?!"
"My goddamn balls fell off!"
Ben's brows raised in curiosity. "Huh?" His eyes flew open in
realization, just before he began laughing his ass off. "Holy SHIT!
You mean the fucking spell actually worked?!" Ben howled with
laughter.
Two more bullet holes appeared in the floor killing Ben's
laughter. "You fucking psycho! I'm gonna kill you!"
Ben reached under the bar and removed his katana. "Come and get
me asswipe. I need a good fight."
A fight would have occurred at this exact moment but the author
deemed that the dramatic tension has built up enough. So instead this
has happened.
Earth: A thing of life, a thing of poetry, a source of creation,
a living entity that is constantly in flux. Earthquake: a source of
destruction, devastation, and death, the movement of Terra causing
tremors.
The ground rippled as if life had been given to it, and it was
pissed. Waves of gravel, asphalt, and cement began shifting. The
walls of the tavern swayed with the movement of the ground.
Ben crawled across the dirty ground clutching his sword as he
tried to make his way to the back room. Bullets whizzed by ripping
holes in the hardwood floor. After a few feet Ben jumped up and made a
run for the back room.
Ben grabbed his duster and slid it on. He leaned against the
wall breathing rapidly. The ground under his feet rippled and moved as
if it had a mind of its own. "Dammit! The only thing that should
ripple underneath me is a fucking WAVE, not the DAMN ground!!" Ben
stood in the threshold of the storeroom, using and enjoying the minimal
protection it provided.
That was until the front half of the tavern began sinking into
the ground. Rafters, studs, ceiling, walls, racks...everything began
breaking and cracking as the quake continued to rip up the ground and
throw people, cars, and buildings into its shifting abyss.
Seeing a break in the building Ben made a desperate sprint for
the outside. Seconds clicked by like hours as the bartender made his
run. As soon as it started it was over and Ben was outside.
Ben stood up from his roll and looked at the building where he'd
just slaved away four months of his life. McLeary's Tavern slowly
began sinking into the ground as the quake continued. Ben slapped his
forehead as he watched the back of the building sinking. "DAMN! I
left the gas..."
Ben's monologue was cut short by the fiery explosion enveloped
the building. Ben ducked down and covered his head with his duster as
the bar exploded causing the different liquors to catch fire. Ben
stood and uncovered his head as he heard sirens going off in the
distance.
"...on." Ben fell to the uneven ground and lay back waiting on
the police and fire department. Right now all Ben cared about was a
nap. A nice long nap on a secluded beach in Key West. "Yeah...sleep
in the sun. Watch the gang surf and tan. Yeah, just like the old
days." Ben rolled over on his side and dozed off.
A man in a black duster and red silk shirt walked up. His
platinum blonde hair shown in the dim light provided by the police.
"Bloody hell, guess its back to Sunnydale for me." The man's British
accent was thick and easily noticeable, along with his hair he looked
like a subdued Billy Idol.
Epilogue
Ben woke up to persistent poking of something on his chest.
Groggily Ben pushed the offending object away. "Five more..." lazily
he rolled over and tried to return to sleep.
Robbie looked down at his baking friend and sighed. "Aw what the
hell, why not." He lifted the phone to his ear. "Mr. Leary? Ben's
busy at the moment, can I have him call you back? Alright. Your home
number? He's got it? Okay, sure thing, bye." Robbie closed the phone
and lay back on the white sand and slowly returned to his nap. "Its
good havin' ya home bro."
Ben smiled slightly and mumbled in his sleep. "Home."
*Chibi Dude Slayer pulls off sunglasses and waves*
CDS: *puts glasses back on and takes a sip from an umbrella drink
on a nearby table* Yo! The boss wanted me to say that The Barstool
Sessions is over. That's right this was the last fic in the Barstool
Sessions, but that doesn't mean Ben's gone back to Key West to retire.
*Chibi Vampboy jumps on camera*
CVB: Hell no! Stay tuned for Barstool Sessions: Season 2:
Welcome to Jersey. A compilation of stories dealing with characters
from Kevin Smith's infamous "Jersey Trilogy"; Clerks, Mallrats, and
Chasing Amy.
*Chibi Dude Slayer grabs camera*
CDS: Stay tuned. Also, keep a look out. Another of The Dude
Slayer's friends will be making an appearance. He's promised her the
chance to help out one of the characters. Ain't he a nice guy?
CVB: If you say so. I say he wants to jump her bones.
*The Dude Slayer walks onstage his duster flapping at all times*
*TDS grabs CVB and begins shoving stakes into his hands and feet,
attaching him to the floor*
TDS: How many times must we go through this. Meatspace and
Cyberspace never meet, correct?
CVB: *nods* Yeah...
TDS: *lights a match and drops it on CVB* Then why did you say
something stupid?
CVB: *screams in pain* Cuz you DO!
*Vampboy walks onstage, his duster does not flap*
VB: What's up? Uh, Chibi Vamp, why are you on the ground?
CVB: Dude Slayer got pissed cuz I said something about Meatspace.
VB: Oh you mean about him wanting to jump...
*TDS duct tapes Vampboy's mouth*
TDS: Try ME! *looks at camera* Stay tuned. Next time Ben's
going to take a few days off back home in Key West before returning to
New York. Oh, and Sheila WILL return. Final note, I don't own Spike.
Joss Whedon does.
So finally, visit my site or drop me a line.
http://the_dude_slayer.tripod.com/Home.html
redrum124@bigfoot.com
Ja ne.
*a phone rings*
*Ben picks up*
Ben: Moshi, moshi?
Denis: Ben, its Denis. I was just wondering something.
Ben: What's that?
Denis: Did you burn my bar down?