Horror Stories In The Dark

The Angels Burned Part 2

It was gearing up to be a long night.

The place was packed two-deep with thirsty patrons, and our barback was nowhere in sight. I wouldn't know it until hours later, but he had quit out of the blue, leaving me to manage the tides myself.

The entrance to our pub was tucked away inside a bricked alleyway, marked with a crooked street lamp. Beyond the frontage of oak and stained-glass windows, the inside oozed with old-fashioned character.

A western fireplace fitted with wrought iron pokers, rickety wooden stools, dozens of triple X whiskey water jugs hanging from the ceiling, and old-world goods for display on the dark shelf-lined walls.

The perfect Old West backdrop for tourists.

That's how all the seasons go in Vail, Colorado.

When visitors weren't coming to freeze on the slopes, they came rolling in for the summer glamour, the velvety hills, and the smell of fireweed and creek water in the air.

Stressful as it made my shift, and as much as I wanted to wring the barback's neck for it, I was used to handling things on my own.

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It's how I cut my teeth in the bar trade—my rite of passage, you might call it. Multi-tasking like a maniac, memorizing cocktail recipes, and answering the electrified calls of drunks—maybe a shot or two on the side to take the edge off.

A few of my regulars were perched along the bar—a triad of glossy-lipped girls fresh in their college years. I could never remember their names, but I always remembered which of them tipped the best.

As the three of them laughed noisily and shouted back and forth to each other, I was keeping an eye on the fellow two stools down from them.

He'd strolled in just as they arrived and settled quickly at the bar.

"What are you thinking, boss?" I asked, taking his order.

"Vodka, neat," he muttered with an inkling of drowsiness. "Keep my tab open."

His face matched the drink, a hard, marbled expression with nothing else mixed in, straight from the bottle to the glass. He wore a dark coat with a red cap fighting to keep his ruffled hair from poking out. A beard enveloped his mouth and dangled under his chin like that of a billy goat.

He'd been eyeballing the girls for a while, and noticeably, none of them cared for it. As two of the girls went to the restroom and one stayed behind, he took his chance.

Busy as that night was, I couldn't help but watch him give it his best:

A subtle gesture to her glass followed by a shake of her head.

A little bit of chatter, and another shake of her head.

But Goat Beard would not be swayed, and I heard him asking something along the lines of, "Do you smoke? Want to go out and smoke with me?"

"Sorry, no," she said, turning her entire body to convey the end of their conversation.

Finally deterred, he left her alone and made his way around the tavern.

Watching him rubber-leg his way over to the dartboards, I wished I had caught how drunk he was before pouring that last drink.

He took a seat near a group of younger guys and watched their darts fly. Whenever one missed its mark or landed clear off the board, the boys—along with their new spectator— erupted with laughter.

He leaned back, teasing the chair on its last two legs, and cackled loudly. Others looked over in curiosity and annoyance until even the jukebox tunes were second to the horsey laughter.