January, 2015

Charles' right eye twitched in time with the flickering neon sign in front of him. It was a horrendously large, and absolutely redundant sign: everyone knew that it was a bar. There was no need for a garishly pink light to spell out the three-lettered word, in all its loopy printed glory, and directly behind the obvious locale of all things. Charles' left eye followed suit.

A sinewy older man wiped down the countertop with a soiled rag. He reached into the breast pocket of his black tee, pulled out a cardboard coaster, and tossed it in front of Charles. He leaned over the dewy mahogany, and gruffly asked, "What'll you be having?"

Charles, startled out of his stupefied state, mimicked the other man's posture. "I'm sorry?"

The graying man rolled his dark eyes more caustically than the question had warranted. "I said, what'll you be having?"

"Ah. Whatever you have on tap would be fine."

The grizzled bartender nodded curtly, tucked the soiled rag in his back pocket, and reached up to grab a tall glass from the ceiling rack. As he filled the spot-stained object, Charles had turned and rested his elbows atop the bar. His skin, chafed underneath his overly starched button-down, grew damp. He lifted an elbow and grimaced at the wet spot before replacing it with a minor shrug.

He scanned the moderately sized room for the familiar outline of his sister. The enveloping smoke from the surrounding patrons' cigarettes created a dark and hazy atmosphere; his blue eyes welled up from the irritant, as it coated the back of his dry throat. He pivoted back to accept his offered beverage with a grateful smile to counter the other man's scowl. He grabbed the base of the glass and chugged a good half of its contents before he reared back with a wet cough.

"Bollocks! That is god awful."

Charles believed that the fiendish smile he received in reply had been the first and only form of happiness on the man's face since he walked in. Twin indents formed in the younger man's brow as he sullenly frowned at the fact. He clutched his offending beverage and turned back around again.

His sour countenance immediately lit up when he caught sight of his sister eagerly waving from the entrance. "Raven!" He placed his drink down in time for his arms to be full of his sister's full weight. The shockingly strong hug was both comforting and smothering at the same time.

"Charles!" Her sharp squeal of delight made her older brother wince. She peppered his clean-shaven cheek with playfully noisy kisses before she finally pulled away with a huff of laughter. "Sorry, we're late. Traffic was a real bitch."

"Raven," Charles admonished with a chiding eye roll. "Honestly."

"What?" Her mischievous expression belied the innocent tone of voice she adopted. Suddenly, her eyes widen and her lips pursed. "Oh! I totally forgot-" She whirled around and looped her arm through her apparent companion. She dragged the reluctant man forward with a jovial grin. "Charles, this is Hank. Hank, this is my brother Charles."

The demure young man offered a meek half-smile. It countered his rather firm handshake in an odd manner. "We've met, Raven. Remember?"

Raven's face scrunched up in her confusion. "When was this?"

Hank's mouth worked in his failing attempt to think of an explanation that would both satisfy her, and keep him from receiving a thump against the back of his head. Charles, having developed a tough cranium from repeated, sisterly bashings, had no such qualms. He smirked merrily as he answered for both of them. "We're roommates, dear."

"I thought your renter was a guy named Henry?" She had, by now, removed her arm from Hank's, and crossed them over the swell of her breasts. She had narrowed her eyes as she looked from one man to the other as if they had dealt her an unforgivable betrayal.

"Uh, Hank is my nickname," the lanky man supplied when Charles didn't appear to have any further comments. "I'm Henry. Hank is a derivative."

Charles' smile widened at Raven's petulant pout. He sighed and patted the empty barstool beside him. She eyed the torn upholstery before perching herself on the edge of the seat. "Oh, come now. I know you were excited to introduce your handsome, strong, intelligent-"

"Annoying," Raven threw in with a mirthful twist of her mouth.

"Annoying," Charles included, "big brother to your boyfriend. I didn't mean to steal your thunder. I honestly had no idea."

"He never mentioned me?" Raven's brow furrowed. Her icy blue eyes raked over Hank's body. "Not even once?"

Charles ignored the want he felt to roll his eyes. "He's mentioned you plenty," he said with a wink to the red-faced man, "But I never caught the name. Shall we pretend we've never met, and start again?" He turned his stool so that his dark slacks brushed against her bare knees. He gave her his best wounded puppy look and grinned widely when she pretended not to notice.

It felt like forever to the men as Raven chewed on her bottom lip in thought. Finally, she released a breath and shook her head. "I forgive you."

"Good!" He threw his hands up in the air and turned back to order more drinks. "Then buck up, and down some of this awful swill they call alcohol."

He stared down at the opposite end of the room, where the bartender was chatting up a customer, and scowled. He was certain that any noise or motion he made was going to be wholly ignored. So, instead, he trained his eyes on the sole television set above the bar mirror. It was directly above the still flickering neon sign.

Charles sighed. "What time does the game start?"

"I'm not too sure," Raven admitted. Charles turned his head to look at her. She shrugged in an almost shy manner. "I just used the game as an excuse to get you to this bar. I didn't think you'd come otherwise." She looked over to Hank, who offered her a reassuring smile.

"I'm wounded," Charles replied. "Raven, I would have met you anywhere. Although," he took a second to glance over his shoulder, "I wouldn't have chosen a dive bar as the locale."

Raven laughed and stole his half-drained drink. She took a healthy gulp and wiped at the remaining froth above her upper lip. "That's delicious."

Charles scowled at her lack of proper taste and returned his gaze to the television. It appeared that the game that Raven had mentioned wasn't to start for another hour. However, Charles was perfectly content to watch the replays of previous games. Especially when the #1 replay caused the entire bar to erupt in a unanimous groan of phantom pain.

"Jesus!" Raven cried out. Using the countertop for leverage, she leaned forward and squinted her eyes at the screen. Her eyes lit up in recognition when a particular name scrolled by. "Oh! I remember hearing about this!"

"About what?" Charles croaked as he watched. He couldn't tear his eyes off.

"Lehnsherr," Raven waved her hand at the screen. "He was a player for, um, for...Hank?"

"Germany," Hank offered from where he stood behind the duo.

"How fitting," Charles replied.

On the screen, Lehnsherr skated behind an opposing player and brought his hockey stick down on the other man's neck. Twice. It didn't take long for nearly the entire team to come to their fallen player's defense, and Charles watched in morbid fascination as Lehnsherr systematically fought and took down nearly every single man by himself.

"Brutal," Hank murmured.

"Too right," Charles muttered back.

The other two struck up a conversation as Charles continued to watch the screen. The camera zoomed in on Lehnsherr's face; his face was dark and thunderous, with bright blood streaking his high cheekbones like a Native warrior. The auburn-haired man takes in the chaos he has started and then glances toward the camera that is focused on his expression.

Lehnsherr grins: wide, feral and toothy.

"I see why they call him The Shark."

When Charles officially meets Erik Lehnsherr in Armando's bar sometime in August, he realizes that the Shark has lost his bite.

End.