Evolution

CHAPTER 5 | ignorance is strength

📎A/N. Hello my lovelies. I've had a little problem trying to get this chapter published. Hopefully the publish button will work before the next chapter is due :(

For those of you caught in Hurricane Matthew, I hope you and your families are safe. My prayers are with you all...

❤ ℳ

❧ ⚛ ✺ ≋ ≋ ≋ ≋ ≋ ✺ ⚛ ❧

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Joe scanned the customers scattered around the small dingy bar as he poured a large glass of craft tap beer. They had been busier than normal, and he was rather stoked at the full tip jar. Unlike most Thursday's, the crowd had not been as loud or recalcitrant as usual.

Correct that; the Werewolf contingent have behaved themselves for a change.

His human customers weren't a problem. Those, he could handle. The rogues and unaligned that congregated here on a weekly basis were another story. Their numbers had grown over the past year, and it made his job as bartender more like a ringmaster in a three-ring circus than that of local publican on the outskirts of the city of brotherly love.

The growing unease and dissection that had infected their community contributed to most altercations. It was pure luck than design, no one had been gravely injured–yet. That wouldn't last. The divide was a powder keg. The smallest spark would blow up the whole volatile mess.

"You right there mate?" he asked Darren, one of his regulars, after noticing the man's difficulty in getting down off the bar stool while reaching into his back pocket at the same time.

Darren frowned as he stood and swayed from side to side to find his balance. Joe shook his head. The man could never hold his booze. It reminded him of the old coots at the outback pub in Alice Springs he'd meet while tending bar. Days like this made him regret leaving Australia.

"Better call it a night," Darren said with a slow slur in his voice. "Wife won't be happy if I'm late." The half inebriated man slid a five-dollar tip across the bar and saluted at Joe, missing his forehead and catching his ear in the process.

Joe glanced up at the clock above the bar–1:55 a.m. Last call was well and truly gone. He reached for the empty glass. "Something tells me that boat has sailed. Just make sure you go to the right house, the cops won't be so lenient next time."

Darren cut a crooked path across the now almost empty bar. With the amount he'd hit the turps over the course of the evening, Joe was astounded that he only tripped twice before he reached the door. With his blood alcohol level, he should be flat on his back and out for the count. By the time the latch clicked shut, the clock had ticked over to 2 a.m.

Joe scanned the remaining patrons and sniffed the air. The strong odour of alcohol, as well as heavy body perspiration from the customers, competed with the acrid stench of cigarettes and hampered his ability to determine if there were any humans left in the building. He found a familiar face and indicated towards the restrooms.

Malcolm, another of his regulars, shot up and disappeared into the gents. A moment later he reappeared and then poked his head into the ladies. "All clear," he said as he headed back to his seat.

A collective sense of relief spread through the room as if a heavy weight lifted from their shoulders.

Joe raced across the room, turned the open sign to closed, and bolted the door shut. "Hey Mary," he called out on his way back to the bar. "If you toss any more nut shells on the floor, it'll be you who's thrown out next."

Mary's response was to throw a peanut shell at him and laugh. Joe returned to the safety of the bar and took drink orders from two Werewolves he'd not noticed before.