Broken Highway: A Thomas Highway Story by Brian Springer

 
     
    1
    I sat at the counter in the pathetic excuse
for a bar, threw down a double shot of Jack Daniels, chased it with
a long pull of Killian’s, and motioned to the bartender to pour me
another shot.
    “I think you’ve had enough, buddy,” the
bartender said in a voice that utterly lacked conviction. He was a
wrinkled old geezer with gray hair and bloodshot eyes. Undoubtedly
took the job for the fringe benefits, which almost certainly
consisted of slipping himself a taste once every hour. Or every ten
minutes more like it.
    I just stared at him with dead eyes and
motioned again. I knew he didn’t have the balls to cut me off.
    “All right,” he said after a moment of
hesitation to save face. “But no more after this one.”
    “That’s what you told me last time,” I
said.
    “Yeah, well this time I mean it,” he said as
he filled my shot glass for what had to be the tenth time that
night.
    “Sure you do,” I said dismissively before
shooting the Jack.
    I paid for the latest round, finished off
the rest of the Killians and turned to survey the room. The place
was an out-and-out shithole; dark and old and reeking of mildew and
spilled beer. A ratty old pool table with only 13 balls sat in the
far corner, unused. A 50’s style jukebox was parked next to it,
lights on but no sound coming from it. Formica tables and plastic
chairs. Concrete floors stained with beer and blood. Not that I
cared. In fact, the condition of the place was the reason I’d
chosen it as my drinking spot for the night. It was a bar that
attracted exactly the kind of people I was looking for. People who
hated their life. People who wanted to be left alone. People who
wanted to drink themselves into oblivion. In other words, people
like me.
    The place was mostly empty. What few
customers there were sat quietly at their tables, scattered about
the room so as to bother each other as little as possible. There
was a wide variety of individuals but all were the same in one
fundamental way. All were broken down, with no fight left in them
at all.
    I turned back towards the bar and motioned
for another round from the bartender. This time he didn’t even
bother putting up a fight. He just shook his head and poured
another shot and got me another glass of beer. Probably just hoping
I’d drink myself unconscious so he could call a cab and get me out
of here. Which, given enough time, would have undoubtedly
happened.
    Unfortunately for everyone involved, trouble
walked in the door just a few minutes later.
    There were three of them, two guys and an
angry-looking girl. Each was dressed similarly; faded jeans, a
dirty T-shirt, and cowboy boots. Each looked like they were itching
for a confrontation. And the way they were acting, it was only a
matter of time until they found one.
    They ordered a couple rounds of beers and
set up shop in the middle of the bar. Within minutes they were
whooping up a storm, laughing and yelling and dropping F-bombs.
Having themselves a good old time. Acting belligerent and daring
someone to call them on it. Which I was about to do.
    It’s not like I came into the bar looking
for a confrontation—far from it, in fact—but now that circumstance
had brought one to my doorstep, I realized I’d been itching for one
for some time now. And this was the perfect situation.
    So I just sat there, staring at them,
waiting for one of them to notice me. Eventually one did. The
chick. She saw me looking at her and stared right back at me.
    I smiled and blew her a kiss.
    Her eyes narrowed and she elbowed one of the
guys to get his attention.
    “What the fuck?” he said, spinning towards
her.
    She leaned in and whispered something in his
ear. His eyes widened.
    “Who?” he insisted.
    She pointed at me. The guy followed her
finger until he locked onto my eyes. He took a good look, and when
I didn’t look away, he stood up and started striding purposefully
in my direction. Chest out, arms back, a sneer on his face, putting
on a