The Arx by Jay Allan Storey

drink,” he laughed, like he’d said something clever, and held up his beer. “But I can handle it. Yeah, maybe I got him started, but nobody put a gun to his head to keep goin’.”
    “He hit the skids pretty bad,” the bartender said. “I saw him passed out in the alley a couple of nights ago, lying in his own puke.”
    “He’s a grown-up,” Bob said. “‘Least he is now.”
    Frank ordered another round. He almost knocked it over again – the glass rocked precariously sideways but he caught it before it fell. He ordered another shot of scotch.
    Bob and the bartender talked about Bob’s alcoholic buddy. It turned out that Bob had encouraged, even coaxed, the other man, who turned out to be his younger brother, to drink when the brother was only a teenager. With each new detail Frank felt the pressure in the room intensify. An overwhelming rage boiled up inside him.
    “I don’t owe him nothin’,” Bob drawled.
    “But he is your little brother,” the bartender said.
    “Yeah, so?” Bob said. “Don’t get on your high horse with me. I’m not my brother’s keeper…” Bob laughed and nudged the bartender’s elbow. “Get it?” he said. “My brother’s keeper.”
    Frank slammed his empty glass on the bar. Bob and the bartender stared over at him.
    “What the fuck’s your problem?” Bob said.
    “You scumbag,” Frank said. He scowled at Bob’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
    “You talkin’ to me?” Bob said. “I’m a what?”
    Frank turned to face him. “Your partner looks up to you, you’re his role model, and you ruin his life.”
    “Partner?” Bob said. “What fuckin’ partner? You some kind of mental case? Anyway, who you think you’re talkin’ to, asshole?”
    He slid off his stool, almost collapsing, and took a step toward Frank.
    “Come on, guys,” the bartender said. “Settle down. Let’s be friends.”
    “There’s a special kind of Hell for scum like you,” Frank said.
    “And I guess you’re the one that’s gonna teach me a lesson,” Bob said.
    Frank slid off his own stool.
    “Okay, you’re cut off,” the bartender said to Frank. “Drink up and get the hell out of here.”
    “You’re the scumbag,” Bob said. He grabbed an empty bottle, smashed it against the bar, and jabbed the glass weapon at Frank. “I’ll teach you to mind your own fuckin’ business.”
    Frank side-stepped the bottle and swept his leg behind Bob’s feet. The already staggering drunk collapsed and fell backward, dropping his weapon. Frank jumped on top of him and smashed at Bob’s face with his fists.
    “Get him off me!” Bob screamed. The bartender jumped over the bar and tried to haul Frank off. He was joined by one of the bikers. Together they pulled Frank away and the biker held him down. Bob struggled to his feet and kicked Frank in the head.
    “Get the hell out!” the bartender yelled to Bob, and he staggered out the front door. Frank still lay on the floor, held now by both bikers. The bartender picked up the phone. A few minutes later the squeal of a siren approached and a spinning red and blue light filtered through the windows. Two cops strode in, their hands on their weapons.
    “What’s going on here?” the larger of the two said.
    “Just get him outta here!” the bartender yelled. “He’s outta control!”
    Frank struggled against the bikers’ grips. They held him long enough for the cops to get the handcuffs on, then they took over.
    “Settle down,” the smaller of them said to Frank.
    Frank was quiet as they marched him, one on each arm, out of the bar and toward the police cruiser. As they reached the sidewalk Frank head-butted the larger cop, broke free, and took off down the street, wrists still handcuffed behind his back.
    They caught up and tackled him, driving him to the pavement face first. Both men jumped on top of him and each drove a knee into his back.
    “Are you going to behave?” the larger one said into his ear.
    Frank nodded. They