This city wasn't that intimidating. Huge as tits, but not nearly as intimidating as the lads on the cargo ship made it out to be. I guess that was my first mistake.
It had been six hours since I walked down the ramp, leaving the ship, home, and my life behind me. Now it was just me and the city; I was all on my own. Maybe that was a good thing. I was technically on the run, after all. However, a brightly lit bar caught my attention. "The Ranch." It could have been called Piss in a Glass for all I cared, I needed a drink.
Well the second I walked in, I knew I didn't fit in too well. Western, cowboy style items on the walls, country music blaring, and the most cowboy hats I had ever seen in my life. And if that wasn't enough of a clue, there were quite a few odd stares that really drove the point home. The walk to the bar seemed particularly long.
I slid onto the stool, talking to the bartender's back. "Eh mate, Jack and Coke?"
"Mate? Where's that accent from?" He turned, grinning as he turned to face me. "You British?"
"Uh, yeah. From Liverpool." I nodded, rubbing the back of my head slightly. Didn't really need another reason to show I didn't fit in.
"Well, wherever you're from, I'm going to need to see some ID."
Shit, I'd forgotten the drinking age was higher here. Being eighteen wouldn't cut it. "Ah, I must have left it in my other jacket..." He set down the glass he had picked up. "That just won't do, son. No ID, no Jack and Coke."
"Ah, let the limey drink, Mitch! Welcome him to the states! We ain't gon' tell anyone, and Lord knows the cops wouldn't care anyways." It was a man a stool down from me, one of the few people in this bar that seemed to actually be from the South. Surprisingly enough, that worked. Whether it was Southern Hospitality, or a true lack of fear for the law, I'd never know. And hell, I didn't care.
I took the glass, grinning at the man who spoke up for me. The next half hour went by pretty smoothly. The people there were nice and friendly, for the most part. I told them about back home, and they told me about the city. I was starting to like the place.
And when the red head in REALLY short shorts sat down next to me, I was in love with the place.
It was a pretty basic conversation. Again, I was asked about home. She seemed interested; and by the way she was leaning towards me and playing with her hair, I could tell I was going to end my first night right. Then some song came on, something about a ..."Honkey Tonk Badonkadonk." Whatever that was. Her eyes seemed to bulge. "I love this song!" She sprang up from her stool, spinning me away from the bar in the process. Then, she started to dance. Working what HAD to have been her badonkadonk. And that's about the last pleasant memory I have of that place.
A firm slap on my shoulder, fingers gripping it. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing? That's my girlfriend, pal!"
I looked at him for a moment, then over where the redhead was. Was being the key word, as she had now retreated to the juke box. Well, there was no way I was going to let this bloke use me to prove his manhood. I finished my drink, standing up to meet him.
"Well, I was enjoying a dance until you came and made a mess of it." I looked him over. He had no accent; probably some guy who decided to play Cowboys, as evidence by his black hat. "...I like the hat."
A fist met my face. A rather rude introduction, if I remember right. The pain throbbed for a moment as I was on the bar floor. I stood up, wiping a bit of blood from my lip. "And here I thought a Yank wouldn't punch like a pussy." Another swing, but I was ready for it. If running with Tom and the lads back home taught me anything, it was how to defend myself. I sent a blow to his stomach, causing him to double over. As I was deciding whether or not he was worth breaking a bottle over, he sent one of his arms sweeping my way. I was pushed (even though at the time, it seemed like I flew) into the table behind me. He was charging at me now. I brought my foot up, his face running into it. He stumbled a bit as I stood, heading over to the pool table.
He approached as I grabbed a pool cue, giving it a quick spin for, to be honest, a purely aesthetic effect. He wasn't going to be able to stand much longer. That kick to the face made sure of that. He stumbled over, and I brought the cue across his face. He stumbled to the left, but still kept advancing, even surprising me.
"Jesus, mate..."
I slammed the cue into my knee, snapping it in two. And finally, as he got to me, I brought both to each side of his head. He fell to the ground, finally unconscious.
Everything came back. The other patrons seemed to appear out of thin air, faces of amusement and anger mixed in the crowd. The redhead rushed to the baffoon's side, and that stupid Bodoobawhatsits song popped up in my ears again. I crouched down, snatching his hat off the floor. Placing the hat on my head, I left for the door, turning to face the bar. Adopting the most stereotypical accent I could, I waved to the crowd.
"Cheerio!"
It had been six hours since I walked down the ramp, leaving the ship, home, and my life behind me. Now it was just me and the city; I was all on my own. Maybe that was a good thing. I was technically on the run, after all. However, a brightly lit bar caught my attention. "The Ranch." It could have been called Piss in a Glass for all I cared, I needed a drink.
Well the second I walked in, I knew I didn't fit in too well. Western, cowboy style items on the walls, country music blaring, and the most cowboy hats I had ever seen in my life. And if that wasn't enough of a clue, there were quite a few odd stares that really drove the point home. The walk to the bar seemed particularly long.
I slid onto the stool, talking to the bartender's back. "Eh mate, Jack and Coke?"
"Mate? Where's that accent from?" He turned, grinning as he turned to face me. "You British?"
"Uh, yeah. From Liverpool." I nodded, rubbing the back of my head slightly. Didn't really need another reason to show I didn't fit in.
"Well, wherever you're from, I'm going to need to see some ID."
Shit, I'd forgotten the drinking age was higher here. Being eighteen wouldn't cut it. "Ah, I must have left it in my other jacket..." He set down the glass he had picked up. "That just won't do, son. No ID, no Jack and Coke."
"Ah, let the limey drink, Mitch! Welcome him to the states! We ain't gon' tell anyone, and Lord knows the cops wouldn't care anyways." It was a man a stool down from me, one of the few people in this bar that seemed to actually be from the South. Surprisingly enough, that worked. Whether it was Southern Hospitality, or a true lack of fear for the law, I'd never know. And hell, I didn't care.
I took the glass, grinning at the man who spoke up for me. The next half hour went by pretty smoothly. The people there were nice and friendly, for the most part. I told them about back home, and they told me about the city. I was starting to like the place.
And when the red head in REALLY short shorts sat down next to me, I was in love with the place.
It was a pretty basic conversation. Again, I was asked about home. She seemed interested; and by the way she was leaning towards me and playing with her hair, I could tell I was going to end my first night right. Then some song came on, something about a ..."Honkey Tonk Badonkadonk." Whatever that was. Her eyes seemed to bulge. "I love this song!" She sprang up from her stool, spinning me away from the bar in the process. Then, she started to dance. Working what HAD to have been her badonkadonk. And that's about the last pleasant memory I have of that place.
A firm slap on my shoulder, fingers gripping it. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing? That's my girlfriend, pal!"
I looked at him for a moment, then over where the redhead was. Was being the key word, as she had now retreated to the juke box. Well, there was no way I was going to let this bloke use me to prove his manhood. I finished my drink, standing up to meet him.
"Well, I was enjoying a dance until you came and made a mess of it." I looked him over. He had no accent; probably some guy who decided to play Cowboys, as evidence by his black hat. "...I like the hat."
A fist met my face. A rather rude introduction, if I remember right. The pain throbbed for a moment as I was on the bar floor. I stood up, wiping a bit of blood from my lip. "And here I thought a Yank wouldn't punch like a pussy." Another swing, but I was ready for it. If running with Tom and the lads back home taught me anything, it was how to defend myself. I sent a blow to his stomach, causing him to double over. As I was deciding whether or not he was worth breaking a bottle over, he sent one of his arms sweeping my way. I was pushed (even though at the time, it seemed like I flew) into the table behind me. He was charging at me now. I brought my foot up, his face running into it. He stumbled a bit as I stood, heading over to the pool table.
He approached as I grabbed a pool cue, giving it a quick spin for, to be honest, a purely aesthetic effect. He wasn't going to be able to stand much longer. That kick to the face made sure of that. He stumbled over, and I brought the cue across his face. He stumbled to the left, but still kept advancing, even surprising me.
"Jesus, mate..."
I slammed the cue into my knee, snapping it in two. And finally, as he got to me, I brought both to each side of his head. He fell to the ground, finally unconscious.
Everything came back. The other patrons seemed to appear out of thin air, faces of amusement and anger mixed in the crowd. The redhead rushed to the baffoon's side, and that stupid Bodoobawhatsits song popped up in my ears again. I crouched down, snatching his hat off the floor. Placing the hat on my head, I left for the door, turning to face the bar. Adopting the most stereotypical accent I could, I waved to the crowd.
"Cheerio!"
