The depth of short stories and micro-fiction 2

Monsters at the bar

Baxter polished a mug with a dirty rag, his eyes scanning the dimly lit bar with a practised gaze. It was a typical Friday night, with the usual patrons gathered at the counter or huddled in the corner booths. There was Gorthok, the towering troll with a penchant for cheap beer and bad jokes, sitting next to Xexaria, the demon with skin-like polished obsidian and eyes that glowed like embers. Across from them, a group of rowdy goblins celebrated what looked like a successful heist, their shrill laughter and clinking glasses filling the air.

Baxter knew them all by name, and they knew him. He'd been running this bar for 20 years, and in that time, he'd learned to cater to a very specific clientele. The sign above the door read "The Red Griffin," but locals knew it as "Baxter's" – a place where the creatures of the night could come to relax, unwind, and be themselves without fear of persecution.

As he poured a shot of whiskey for a hooded figure at the end of the bar, Baxter's mind wandered to his kids. His daughter, Emily, was a precocious 12-year-old with a love for fantasy novels and a mischievous grin. His son, Jack, was a rambunctious 9-year-old with a passion for Legos and a mop of messy brown hair. They were his world, and he'd do anything to keep them safe.

Just then, the door burst open, and a group of rough-looking men stormed in, their faces twisted with anger and hatred. They were armed to the teeth, and their eyes scanned the room with a mix of fear and disgust.

"Everyone, get down!" one of them yelled, waving a gun wildly. "We're looking for the owner!"

Baxter's instincts kicked in, and he slowly raised his hands, palms outward. "Easy, fellas. I'm the owner. What can I do for you?"

The leader, a burly man with a scar above his left eyebrow, sneered at Baxter. "You're the one who's been harbouring these...things?" He spat on the floor, his eyes flicking to the assembled monsters and demons. "You're a traitor to humanity, and you're going to pay."

Baxter kept his cool, his mind racing with ways to defuse the situation. But before he could speak, the men grabbed him, hauling him over the counter and slamming him to the floor.

As they dragged him away, Baxter caught Gorthok's eye, and the troll nodded almost imperceptibly. Xexaria's eyes flashed with anger, and the goblins' laughter died on their lips.

The men tossed Baxter into a waiting van, where his children were already being held. Emily's eyes were wide with fear, while Jack looked like he was trying to be brave.

"Let them go," Baxter said, his voice low and even. "They have nothing to do with this."

The leader sneered again. "You think you're above the law, don't you? Well, we're going to teach you a lesson. You and your little monsters are going to pay for your treason."

As the van sped away from the bar, Baxter closed his eyes and focused on the subtle hum of magic that permeated the air. It was a gentle vibration, one that only those attuned to the supernatural could feel. He reached out with his mind, calling upon the creatures he'd come to consider friends.

Gorthok, Xexaria, and the goblins were just the beginning. Baxter had connections all over the city, in every shadowy corner and hidden alleyway. He'd spent years building relationships, offering a haven and a listening ear to those who needed it.

And now, he was calling in those favours.

The van screeched to a halt in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. The men dragged Baxter and his children out, tossing them onto the cold concrete floor.

As they prepared to execute their twisted plan, the shadows around them began to shift and writhe. Eyes glowed in the darkness, and the air grew thick with an otherworldly energy.

Gorthok burst through the doors, his massive frame sending the terrorists flying. Xexaria followed, her presence like a dark storm cloud, crackling with electricity. The goblins swarmed in, their shrill laughter and snapping teeth sending the men into a panic.

But they were just the vanguard. More creatures emerged from the shadows, each one more terrifying than the last. There were werewolves and vampires, ghosts and ghouls, all united in their desire to protect Baxter and his children.

The terrorists didn't stand a chance.

As the dust settled, Baxter surveyed the carnage. The men were either fled or defeated, and his children were shaken but unharmed. He knelt beside them, hugging them tightly as the creatures of the night looked on.

"Thank you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you for being my friends."

Gorthok grinned, his tusked mouth spreading wide. "Anytime, Baxter. You're one of us."

As they made their way back to the bar, the city's supernatural community gathered around them, a silent escort of monsters and demons. Baxter knew that he'd never be able to repay the debt he owed them, but he also knew that he didn't have to.

In a world where the creatures of the night were often feared and reviled, Baxter had created a sanctuary, a place where they could be themselves without fear of persecution. And in return, they had given him a family, a community that would stand by him no matter what.

The Red Griffin's sign creaked in the wind as they approached, the words "Baxter's" etched in bold letters beneath. It was a beacon, a symbol of hope in a world that often seemed too dark and too cruel.

And as Baxter pushed open the door, his children clinging to his hands, he knew that he was exactly where he belonged – among the monsters, the demons, and the creatures of the night.