One for the Road

The barman raised his eyes heavenwards as another glass shattered. The party was finally starting to slow down as groups of drunken men staggered around the large ground floor of The Harvester Inn trying to find a seat. He reached under the sticky surface of the bar and picked up the dustpan, shaking bits of the previous accident into the bin under the till.

Lifting the hatch, and skirting around several staggering couples en-route, he managed to get to the shards before anyone stepped on them, and retreated back behind his wooden defences.

It was a closed bar tonight, and being a private party with a free bar appeared to have had quite an effect. Several of the guests had passed out in quiet corners and a variety of inebriated states decorated the bar in front of him. Few people were asking for any more drink now, but some were still talking, including the intermittently verbose drunkard in front of him, who yet again tried to resume the lost thread of his one-sided conversation. As much for something to do as anything else, the barman resumed polishing the collection of glasses on the bar as the drunk carried on his miscellaneous ramblings. The shabby man reminded him of an American detective popular in the eighties, but the more the barman peered at him, the more elusive the detectives name seemed to become.

"... you see. Well you see this is the only time we all get together, so we have to have a party. One big club; all together, having fun. One night off a year, you know, gotta have a party. Some even dress up every year. Look, there's Mikey: he was Attila the Hun last year, and Hitler the year before."

He waved an arm in the vague direction of a shadowed corner where a tall hooded figure sat in a booth surrounded by inebriated colleagues. Death and his drunken buddies, which for some reason included Elvis, George Bush and Scooby Doo, although Death had nodded off, and someone had pinched his scythe.

The barman's attention was drawn back to the shambolic figure in front of him as the drunk's eyes glazed and he mumbled on in a barely audible whisper.

"One night off from the killings and the blood: one night of amnesty. No contracts, rivers of blood, one night...."

As the man slumped into a puddle of beer and started snoring, the barman wandered along the bar collecting up the empties. The dimmed lights of the pub cast his shadow in caricature: a tall man, thin and bald, with a collection of tattoos up each visible section of arm and the side of his neck. A scar on one cheek twisted a sardonic smile as he surveyed the carnage of another free company do.

"Oi. Oi barman! Any chance of a bit of service over here?"

He turned around and walked to the other end of the bar where an immensely muscled man loomed over the counter.

"And what can I get you sir?" he asked, placing his tea towel on the wooden surface.

"Bourbon on the rocks," said the man and turned his back on the barman to look around the Inn.

Ice clinked into the glass followed by a slug of Jim Beam. The man turned back to face the mirrors behind the bar as the glass was placed by his hand.

As he picked up his drink, the cuff of his jacket rode up exposing the base of his hand and the tattoo on the ball of his thumb. This seemed to jolt some thought in the man, and after his gaze had flicked across his tattoo he took a sip of drink and looked hard at the barman who stood facing him.

"Show me your hands."

At the command, the barman mutely raised his hands from the bar for inspection, revealing two jailbirds caught in mid flight between thumb and forefinger.

"The other side idiot," growled the man leaning closer to the barman.

Both hands were turned over and some of the tension went out of the bigger man as he noticed the tattoo matching his own on the barman's thumb.

"Honestly, what is wrong with this lot?" he questioned angrily. "They're all trashed." He waved a hand widely as if to emphasise the various sprawled forms in the Inn, where many of the night's patrons were collapsed in odd corners. Some tables were still conversing, but in the stilted and rambling diatribe of the massively inebriated. Only the large man at the bar appeared able to hold a normal conversation.

"They've pretty much drunk me dry sir, so it's not too surprising. It's the 'One Night' after all."

"Pour me another," said the man. "And get yourself one for God's sake, I may as well have a drink with someone who can talk."

Two more glasses hit the bar a few seconds later, their brown contents sloshing against the sides.

The large man raised his glass and swallowed, and raised his eyebrows in surprise as he realised the barman was no longer there. Looking around, he saw him walk to the door, and lock it after checking the 'Closed for Private Party' sign was still on the outside of the window.

"I don't think we'll be expecting anyone else tonight sir, and we don't want the Old Bill walking in half way through festivities now do we?"

"What festivities? Even Mikey's passed out. Good grief what a party." The larger man again lifted his drink to his lips, smirking at the sight of the cowled figure tattooed on his hand but stopped again as he realised he was on his own for a second time. Noticing movement, he glanced around as the toilet door swung shut, and a few moments later, the door reopened and a man staggered out towards the bar.

"Hey boss," he said, and slid serenely to the floor with a bemused smile on his face.

"Oh for God's sake," said the larger man as Scooby Doo collapsed on his foot. "Even you Mikey?" He stopped, mouth open to say something else and turned. Something was wrong and the six-foot tall dog was becoming a less than reassuring weight on his left foot.

"Get off," he growled pushing Mikey away, tense with the awareness something wasn't right.

"Anything wrong, sir?" The barman's voice from behind him startled him and he turned, feeling dizzy and confused. "You might want to take a seat, sir. It won't be long now."

"What the hell?" The larger man slumped to the floor, unable to stand as his legs gave way. Mikey lay next to him, his skin a horrible grey-green colour, his breathing shallow.

The barman leant over him and raised his hands, showing him the tattoo of Death on the base his thumb. He rubbed it off with the other hand and pulled out a chain hanging around his neck, from which dangled a silver dagger.

"Nothing personal old son, I'm just doing my job. I'm sorry, but this is the end of the party. You and your little group are moving on, so to speak, and it is my job to assist you in that move. You see, you and your friends may be on a night off and so not allowed to kill each other, but I am not. Everyone in here is nearing death now. There was a very effective poison both in the ice and smeared on the inside of the glasses. It works well, as the initial effects of the poison are similar to drunkenness."

"Why? Who?" came the barely audible croak from floor level.

"Well, normally I wouldn't divulge client details, but he'll be along in a moment, so it won't hurt. I'm with the Silver Daggers. We're an ancient group of assassins who take on very specialist clientele. Recently, we had a rather unusual request from a rather unusual client. This particular client has taken some exception to your use of the Grim Reaper form as a little identifier for your group, although he doesn't necessarily object to what you do."

A tall form cloaked in black loomed up behind the barman, a dark shadow in place of a face in the depths of the cowl. Faint twin pinpoints of light gazed across infinity and focused on the man on the floor. An arm lifted, deep sleeves drawing back to reveal the bare bones of a skeletal hand and a scythe winked into existence, the blade flashing darkly in the subdued pub lighting.

"His job is to sever your soul from your mortal form," carried on the barman conversationally. "That is what he does. He does not take life, but as I mentioned earlier, he has taken great exception to you using his form as a little membership badge for your so-called Assassins Guild. Call this payback if you will, but I prefer the term 'Infringement of Copyright'. I've been employed to dispatch you, he will now speed your sorry soul on its journey."

The barman walked to the coat rack and lifted down a long black coat, swinging it over his shoulders, and addressed the tall scythe carrying figure directly.

"Does this conclude our business, my Lord?"

The cowl nodded and Death gestured towards the door.

"Thank you, my Lord."

A few minutes later, the tall figure of the barman opened the front door of The Harvester Inn and stepped into the clear moonlight outside, carefully locking the door behind him as he went. He caught a brief glimpse of a tall cowled figure leaping balletically around the room, flashes of light punctuating the Dance Macabre as the scythe swung and souls sped into the night. He closed the door and paused with the key in his hand.

"Columbo," he muttered. "That was the detective in the trench coat; played by Peter Falk." He smiled in satisfaction, removed the sign from the door, crumpling it into a pocket, and turned back into the street. As he moved away from the entrance to the Inn, a young couple walked arm in arm towards him and made to enter.

"I wouldn't go in folks, it's bloody murder in there tonight. The atmosphere is positively deathly."

He grinned at them, and walked casually away down the street, listening to the hastening footsteps going in the opposite direction.

~~~ The End ~~~