What was that? You wanna hear my story?

Ah, it's not really that interesting.

You sure?

Well.......ah, alright.

So, there was this guy who came into my bar one cool, July night. He was totally wrecked. He was sporting a black eye, had several cuts on his face, and his shirt had two holes in the middle of his sternum which looked awfully a lot like the size of bulle-

Oh, wait. Before I go on, you should know a few things about me.

Hi.

I'm Antony Corelli Drezel, but my friends call me Ant. Well, Sheep and Carlo only call me Ant, the only two people that I know who actually treat me like a human being on this south side of crap-ville, so basically they're my only friends. I own a crappy watering hole in downtown Oakland that's part of my rich uncle's bar chain.

It's the Corelli Bar.

Never heard of it?

I didn't think so. There are only five or four of our bars across Oakland and in Daly City, so I don't blame you.

Anyway, Carlo and Sheep help me in keeping this poor excuse of a bar intact. Carlo Marino, who's a hulking six foot eleven inches of Guatemalan muscle and sinew, works as my bar's bouncer. And he's very good at it. So far this month he's expelled about every cheap drunk and loiterer on the south side of Oakland city alone. He has short cut brown hair that looks like he's bald under certain lights, hazel eyes that could melt a vagrants squinty-eye stare, and a face as ugly and scarred as a garbage bin, but I never tell him that. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy; he's practically my brother, if I had one. But let's just say that he won't be dating supermodels in the near future.
If ever.
Although, he does get along with Sheep very well. She's got guts.

Sheep. Odd name, isn't it?

Sheep--or best known to her parents and a few relatives as Sheppard Dell--Sheep and I go way back to middle school. She was the one who saved my sorry backside before I got my face pummeled into a garbage can one day after school. I've had several crushes on her over the years, but now, romance is the farthest thing from my mind. It's the bar that I'm now married to.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Although the name on her birth certificate says Sheppard, we never call her that. If we called her as much as 'Sheppard', she would taze us with that thirty-thousand volt monster in her purse, and maybe add a few sprits of mace while she was at it. It really depended on her mood. She's taller than me--much taller than me--but coming five inches short of Carlo's massive height. She has thick runner's thighs—she jogs every morning—and has hair yellow as the sun. Her eyes are a mysterious tide green mixed in a sea blue—of which I can never decide on which color—and they always seem to bore into my soul whenever I look into them. It's enchanting, mesmerizing, and chilling all at the same time.

But back to that muggy July night. The night the 'Guy' came in.

Carlo and Sheep were sharing a hushed conversation with the occasion giggle from Sheep and low chuckle from Carlo while I-- the loner--rested on the stool that was my only point of comfort and rest in the small cubicle that I called "The Bar". It wasn't much of a bar, nothing you would find in most nightclubs or taverns. It was just one straight long piece of mahogany that acted as my counter. It was actually the only decent piece of furniture in the entire place. I had just finished wiping it clean for the third time tonight when the Guy strode in through the door. Bells chimed sorrowfully as the newcomer plopped himself down directly in front of me as I quickly turned on the single box of metal that acted as the bar's TV.

It was playing an infomercial about crab jewelry, but I didn't have any courage to change it. The Guy was already asking me something.

"You." He grunted, his voice the sound of steel wool brushing a tin pan. It wasn't gruff or gravelly, but it had a certain edge and harshness to it that sorta reminded me of my uncle whenever I did something wrong.

"Yes, sir!" I replied cheerfully, trying my best not to sound like a bartender that wasn't in any need of a tip any time soon. "What'll you have tonight?"

The Guy grunted, putting a hand to his chest. There were two fine points in his midsection that punctured his shirt. They looked awfully a lot like bullet holes.

When the Guy didn't respond, I spoke a little louder, leaning on the counter.

"Sir. What'll you have?"

"Anything you got." The Guy said without looking up. Even though his head was down, I knew his eyes were scanning the entire room. He looked like one of those guys was once my grandfather's bodyguard that was with him every time my dad and I visited. At the time I didn't know I had Italian mafia blood in me and that me and my dad weren't there for just a friendly visit to 'good ol' grandpa's'. But that's not part of this story.

The Guy is. The Guy and what he did is this story.

And pretty soon, me, Sheep, and Carlo would be part of his story soon enough. But I'm getting way too fore shadowy with you here. I'm sorry.

The Guy coughed, splattering blood and spittle on my freshly cleaned counter. I opened my mouth to object, but he was pulling out his wallet. At least, I thought he was pulling out his wallet. What landed on the bar wasn't a large wallet packed with cash for tips, but actually a large and very sharp looking knife. I stared at the knife and rubbed my eye.

Keep it cool. You're cool. You're not going to die, he's just a hobo or freak or whatever trying to miff you up. You're cool. You're-

"Cool knife." I said without thinking. The Guy grunted and looked over at the now fast approaching Carlo. You would think a bull elephant was charging across the wood paneled floor as Carlo came up beside the stranger and stared down at the Guy. It wasn't Carlo's first time to see a weapon of this kind, and nor was it a foreign site for me either. I had seen plenty living in downtown Oakland. Enough violence, cussing, and sexual innuendo/abuse to fill an army grunt's tour. But I wasn't an army grunt. I don't think I would even make it in the air force.

I wasn't smart enough, strong enough, and didn't even have the common sense to get this guy out of my bar. But I let him stay. And as you will see, I think that was the best choice for the Guy, for me, and everyone else; albeit how excruciatingly horrendous the process.

"Sir...sir?" Carlo asked in his gruff voice. The Guy didn't look up as he whispered.

"Yes. It's a knife. You can have it." The Guy took out a dull red handkerchief—which might've been white once upon a time—and wrapped up the knife. "It's a ka-bar. And it's not mine."

He gave it to Carlo, who gave me a look that obviously said Who is this guy? I shrugged; both hands on the counter. The confused gesture made me look even more diminutive in size. Carlo took the army knife with him into the backroom—which was really more like a closet—and slipped in one last glance at the strange dude sitting in front of me. The Guy was much more muscled than me, the kind that Sheep might be into whenever she wasn't at the bar or with Carlo. But the Guy wasn't as large or anywhere near the height of my bouncer friend.

The Guy wore a baseball cap that covered most of his brooding eyes whenever he wasn't glaring at someone. He had a stone jaw on where a few scars clung happily at the bottom left of his chin. The only thing that really surprised me was the fact that this Guy dressed like a freakin' superhero. Underneath the ripped and tattered nay blue shirt I could barely see the outline of body armor. Not the ballistic vests that Oakland P.D. SWAT guys wear, but some kind of thin, almost unnoticeable plates that covered his chest and midsection.

"What's the hold up?" The Guy asked, tearing me out of my investigative stupor.

"Oh." I said, coughing dryly into my arm as I waved at two beer taps of the measly selection my bar still had. It was pitiful, to say the least, and completely in need of much more. I offered the two selections of name brand beer and he shook his head quickly.

"You got any Scotch, or..." The Guy paused, staring at Carlo who was coming back out of the backroom behind me. "Or Irish Whiskey?"

"Irish Whiskey?" Carlo muttered, shaking his head slightly as he flipped the bar entrance up and passed on through. "We don't even have champagne."

I gritted my teeth, tempted to kick Carlo's big fat butt crack on his way out, but that wouldn't be professional. That would have to wait until later. I managed a grin at my odd customer and quickly added to Carlo's comment,

"We don't have champagne 'cause we... just got a big party of these Wall-Streeter guys in here a week ago and the new shipment is taking longer than we, uh, thought." The lie easily passed through my lips, but the Guy didn't respond. Instead, he just looked up from his clasped hands and replied,

"Just get me my Irish Whiskey, kid. Preferably the entire bottle..." Then the Guy added gruffly, "Please."

"I'm sorry, I can't allow that." I heard myself say.

The Guy muttered a curse underneath his breath.

"Well, why not?"

I gulped. "Company policy, sir."

The Guy looked at me right in my eyes, muttered something derogative about bartender's backside's, and then stood up. He leaned to one side a bit, favoring his left. He turned around and headed straight for the door.

I cleared my throat, and before I could stop myself, I spoke. "Twenty-four fifty."

The Guy stopped midway to the door. He paused there, as if I had just called for him to stop and he were an insolent child breaking the rules. The Guy pivoted on one heel and came straight back to his spot on at the bar. Though his cap visor was down, I thought I caught the hint of a grin on his face. Must've been the light.

"What was that?"

"Twenty-four fifty." I knew I was going cheap, but no one had asked for Irish Whiskey in this dump ever since my dad ran this place. And that was before I was even born.

Without a beat, the Guy slapped a handful of crisp ten dollar bills. I counted maybe three Alexander Hamilton's staring back up at me from the counter. They practically yelled at me to pick them. Or maybe they were singing. I couldn't tell which as I picked out two of them and slid them to myself. And then the night just got a warmer. The Guy flicked the last bill and I stared right back at general Grant's face. Now I could swear I heard the chorus. If Alexander Hamilton's were the backup singers, Grant was the baritone.

"Tip." The Guy grunted. He didn't see my overly large and excessive smile as I pocketed the extra cash. That was, by far,  the biggest tip this week. It helps to have strange customers; as long as they aren't drunk already or raging psychopaths.

"Entire bottle of Irish Whiskey coming up, sir."

Strange customers and big tips; me and my friends could handle. But before I knew it, there would be more trouble than just the average skateboard loiterer and drunk hobos we would have to deal with. Oh, yeah.

Much more.