The Old Man's Bar

It was the Friday night after the rock star was murdered that rain cascaded down upon a lone traveler as he made his way down Broadway Street in the outlander colony of Neo-Manhattan. The street was dark and mostly empty. A few other pedestrians ran to their destinations under the protection of rain shields. Rays of a single street light were reflected on the wet sidewalk. The loner paused underneath the light, as if pondering his final destination. The light cast shadows on his sharp features and his long coat drooped wearily about his soaked body. His silver gaze fixed on a red neon sign above the door of a seedy looking establishment. The vowels flickered off and on, but the sign read clearly “The Old Man’s Bar.”

Three men sat at the bar being served by a tall, thin woman. The lights behind the bar were purposely dimmed to hide the years of harsh life that showed on her weathered face. Another man sat at a table, half drunk, over an empty bottle and a full glass. No one but the bartender turned to look when the loner walked in. He moved into the musky atmosphere as if it was water to a fish, and quickly found a place in the corner where the bar met the wall. He slipped off his coat, draped it over the nearest barstool, and the drips quickly formed a puddle on the floor. Twin laser pistols shone dully from the holsters on his gun belt, and every one in the bar now risked a glance in his direction. He slid the barstool away with his foot and leaned against the counter standing up, with his back against the wall and his right hand on his hip, within quick reach of a gun.

“How can I help you, sir?” The barmaid asked.

“You can’t,” he said bluntly, “but you can get me a Martian rose.”

“All right, Cowboy.” She said, moving to the tap.

“And make that import...” He grumbled in his throat. “None of that local mix junk.”

“I hear ya’.”

“Today investigators from Home World have identified the type of weapon used in the murder of rock star Hack Strayer.” A reporter said on the overhead monitor. “It seems the murderer used a Class 7 laser gun. A weapon highly restricted, but not unavailable, to anyone in the outland colonies.”

“Anything else on?” The loner asked. The barmaid touched a remote and brought up a deadbeat Home World opera.

“Is this good?” she asked, “Only get two channels out here.”

“Fine.”

“Here’s your Martian; import.” The glass clanked against the counter top.

“Thanks.” He sniffed it, took a quick swallow, and made a glance around as if he had expected something to change.

There was a moment of relative silence as only the opera played on in the background. Finally the drunk at the table got up and made his way towards the bar. Surprisingly, he made a strait line. His hands came down hard on the shoulders of two of the other patrons.

“Hey fellas, what do you think of that murder case?” He brayed. They didn’t seem to know how to reply.

“I’ve been thinking,” he went on without an answer, “it was a ‘Worlder.”

The other two men glanced nervously at the loner, who was glaring back at them. His sharp features, his clothing, his guns; all these things marked him as a visitor from Home World.

“I mean, them ‘Worlders are backstabbing murderers. They take their tax from us colonizes... colonisses... colonists, and never give anything back. Then they send their celebrities out here like we run some kinda’ resort. We’re just here fight’n for our lives. Yep, I tell you, them ‘Worlders are nothing but trouble.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence before the stranger spoke.

“The ‘World, huh?” He said sarcastically. “Some place that you’ve been?”

“I wouldn’t get in spitting distance of the planet.” The drunk replied sourly.

“Got something against ‘Worlders?”

“Plenty.”

The loner gave him a minute nod before silently excusing himself and making his way towards the back of the building. Along the back wall was a well-worn target range for outlanders to practice their gun slinging on when they weren’t targeting varmints in the badlands. The drunk picked up the monitor remote from the counter top and brought the case report back on screen. The ‘Worlder had a pistol out before the reporter could finish a single sentence. The barmaid screamed as two crimson laser bolts shot back towards the bar. Both shots bulls-eyed the monitor. The screen rolled static for a moment before shorting and going completely black.

“Woah, bub!” The drunk exclaimed. Then a little lower, a little more accusingly, “You got a lot of anger pent up in there.”

“It’s ignorant people like you that make me angry.” The stranger hissed.

“Well,” the drunk said defiantly, “it’s ‘Worlders like you that make me mad. You guys think you’re so all-mighty; so above the law. Ha! ‘Bout time another ‘Worlder learns his lesson.” He brushed the tail of his jacket to the side, revealing a long laser pistol.

The loner looked past him to the barmaid.

“He any good?” he asked.

“He bulls-eyes the wall targets,” she replied, “when he’s sober.”

“Ha, ha. I’ll sober up for fun.”

“You’re on.”

“Good, but we play by outlander rules. One gun; one shot.”

“That’s fine.” The ‘Worlder said as he approached the bar again.

One man paid his tab and walked out into the street as they placed their guns on the table. The other two stayed to watch. The drunk popped the power cartridge from his pistol and handed it to the barkeeper to drain to one shot. The ‘Worlder did likewise with one of his guns, leaving the other with the barmaid for safe keeping. As they waited, the loner casually picked up the drunk’s gun, ran his hand up and down the barrel, and twirled it twice on his trigger finger before setting it back down on the counter top.

“I’ll give the count.” The woman said as she handed them each their gun.

“Right.” The ‘Worlder said as he holstered his gun and made for the other side of the bar, counting out twenty feet as he went. When he reached nineteen a laser bolt shot just over his right shoulder and burnt a hole deep into the wall in front of him. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He calmly drew his gun as he turned to face the drunk.

The drunk’s gun was held shakily extended in his right hand. His face was white with dread, and this soon he reeked of sweat.

“You tried to cheat.” The stranger said flatly as he leveled his own gun and held it steady.

“It’s a good thing you were drunk,” he said. Then, after a pause, he slowly lowered his gun again. “And it’s a good thing ‘Worlders aren’t murderers; at least not this one.”

The drunk stood in stunned disbelief as the loner holstered his pistol and walked back to the bar. He casually went about the business of retrieving his other gun and paying his tab. They all still stared at him in shock as he slipped his coat back on.

“The one small point I know you’ve been missing,” he said, “my guns are Class 4. Your gun looked like a Class 7 to me.”

The ‘Worlder made his way to the door, and tossed a coin to the barmaid before he went back out into the rain. “That Martian rose was good, but it wasn’t import; you mixed it yourself.”

As the door slammed shut, the drunk fell to his knees and vomited. The barmaid gratefully pocketed the sizable tip, before giving one disgusted look at the murderer who now lay in a crumpled heap on her floor.

“It always rains,” she said, “on the loser’s day parade.”