Out For Blood

Prologue

The man behind the bar was aware of the massive, scarred fist arcing straight at his face, and thought, Again? The scene played out in slow motion as he continued to wipe down the countertop, his movements never hesitating or deviating. He did not flinch as the flesh-and-bone missile continued its collision course.

Yet another regular night at the drinking establishment—it couldn’t really be termed a bar—until Stanley had become overzealous in his quest for intoxication. The trouble started when the man behind the bar refused his barely decipherable request for just one more.

The incoming fist stopped about four inches from the barkeep’s face and simply hung there, trembling. Stanley stared at his mutinous hand as though it was something separate from his body. His disbelief and confusion would have been comical had he not been trying to put that fist through the smaller man’s skull.

The barkeep finished wiping down the last bit of the bar, then cleared his throat and the entire room stilled. Stanley continued to hang, fist locked up in thin air, unable to do anything but stare at it. With a noncommittal glance at the suspended fist, the barkeep addressed the owner of the fist.

Time to go, Stanley, he said, his tone more bored than anything. When you start swinging at the guy who pours your beer, you’ve definitely had too much to drink.

Aw jee-zuz, Stanley said, his voice shaking as much as his still-hanging fist was, I was…I was jesh feckin’ joshin’ ya. His words slipped from his throat like a car on an icy road, all sloppy and skittering. The man behind the bar looked at Stanley’s watering eyes, the way a few strands of his greasy hair danced a jig as they hugged his jawline. He saw the white hairs like potted plants sprouting from Stanley’s ears and nose. And he saw so much more about Stanley as well. More than he ever wanted to see about anyone.

Turning away, willing himself not to see anymore, the barkeep balled the cloth and wiped at a stray wet spot on the bar. Time to go, Stanley.

Nah, Stanley pleaded. Nah, doan. Doan kick me out. I’ll be quiet, promish.

The wiping stopped. Their eyes met.

"It is time, he said, to go." Though it wasn’t stated, everyone in the place heard the threat. Things never went well if he had to repeat himself.

Stanley’s fist slowly dropped back to his side, fully in his command again. Without another word, he spun—almost too lightly for his parka-encased bulk—and headed for the door. The barkeep followed behind. Though no one was near it at the time, the door opened as Stanley approached and he walked through without another word.

You say hi to that pretty wife of yours, the barkeep said. Stanley’s wife was not what anyone would consider pretty, and Stanley often referred to her as the feckin’ poster child for Save the feckin’ Whales, but he chose not to correct the barkeep. One hand came up in a backhanded wave as Stanley continued to concentrate on trucking right. It wasn’t so much that the road was long, as it was the width that was causing the problem.

The barkeep watched his ping-ponging for a few seconds more, said, See you tomorrow, Stanley, then slammed the door and stalked back behind the bar. Picking up the cloth that was more holes than material, he went back to wiping down the bar. "And you will keep those fists to yourself tonight," he muttered as his motions became more violent and his knuckles whitened. Though it was spoken low, and to nobody in particular, it still sounded like another warning. A couple of the regulars moved from the bar to the tables, knowing his mood would not improve tonight and distance was the better part of valour.

♦ ♦ ♦

The barkeep, though slim and unmuscled, seemed to carry an air of command about him, as though wise beyond his years. This did not go unnoticed by a relatively new, but regular, patron of the bar.

Lookit that guy! Can’t believe how all y’all kowtow to ’im. He doesn’t look old enough to shave, let alone pour, fer chrissakes! Greasy Eddie said. He turned to his new best friend, an older man with a face like an ashtray. What’s his story, Willie?

Blind Willie—so named due to the unfortunate insertion of a fork that had robbed him of sight in his left eye, the spot since covered with a dirty patch—took a long swig of his beer before wiping the foam from his whiskers with his sleeve. Willie took his time doing it, as though savouring the smell of a fine cigar and not snot- and beer-encrusted flannel.

Guy’s been here damn near twenty years.

Greasy Eddie turned in his seat, the legs of his chair scraping across the rough lumber floor, as he tried to get a better look at the man behind the bar. Man? No way, that was a boy! A teenager at best, all lanky hair and peach fuzz. Twenty years?

Bullshit, you say! Eddie retorted, turning back to Willie.

Hey, you don’t gotta believe me. No skin off my ass, Willie said, throwing his hands up in placation as his whiskers picked up the dim light from the lanterns placed around the drinking area, gleaming whitely in the semidarkness. Believe it or don’t. That’s your call, but I ain’t shittin’ you. Showed up in the early eighties, ain’t that right, Red? Eighty-one, eighty-two?

Red, one of the drinkers who had just moved from bar to table, simply nodded morosely into his beer. Yup.

Greasy Eddie was having none of it. You mean he showed up as a young pup, right? Still sucklin’ on his mama’s teat? His face screwed up in a grimace of such tight concentration that the single tear tattooed near his eye nearly disappeared into the folds of skin.

If he was still suckin’ tit at that age, he was a lucky man indeed! said Willie, laughing. His voice was a sandpapery rasp. Ain’t that right, Red?

Red addressed his beer again. Yup.

Eddie looked between the Red and Willie. They were jerking him around. He spun again to face the bartender, mentally calculating the man’s—the boy’s!—age, figuring he would have to be on the ass end of thirty, minimum, probably more like early forties. He watched the bartender brush the hair—not a spot of grey in the patch—away from his unlined forehead with his wrist as he wiped at a sign posted behind the bar. This is a dark ride, it stated.

They were jerking him around.

Greasy Eddie’s eyes travelled around the room, noting details. Hell, he’d been in more luxurious fishing huts. But what did anyone really need to drink away the memories of their day, their job, their spouse, or their life? It was all here: a very simple square enclosure made from rough planks and wood panelling on the walls, some mismatched tables and chairs, a big woodstove in one corner and the bar itself in the other. The walls were unadorned with the exception of the propane lanterns hung on nails spaced every six feet or so, giving the room what little ambience it may have possessed. No dart boards, no pool tables, no neon signs, no beer posters, no fancy-ass appetizer menu. Not even a big fridge that he could see. Hell, the place didn’t even have a sign outside to declare name or nature of the establishment. Just that weird plaque above the door.

The fact that Greasy Eddie had stumbled in and ended up sharing beers with Red and Blind Willie was down more to luck and curiosity than anything. But that’s what this place was. A serious drinking room. Come in, drink up, and get the hell out before the fight starts. Or, get a good seat for it, if you’re so inclined.

After spying the dozen or so faces currently in the bar, none familiar to Eddie as yet, he had no other sources of information to draw from. But he was sure he was the brunt of the joke.

As his gaze came back around to Blind Willie, the old man spread his calloused hands in front of him and over the scarred tabletop. Like I said, I ain’t shittin’ you. I don’t know you well enough to give you any shit, or to be takin’ any shit from you. We all got our own shit, and I personally got enough shit to last me. Willie rubbed a grubby hand against the side of his capilleried nose, his dirty fingernail making a quick deke inside his left nostril, checking for anything worth mining. Finding nothing of note, it popped back out. He never wiped it. I think our buddy at the bar probably has more than enough shit to go round, by the looks of him.

Eddie took another look at the bartender. There were traces of lines around his mouth and too-old eyes, most Eddie would have guessed were from smoking, though not all. They weren’t laugh lines, and they looked out of place on such a youthful face. It looked like he hadn’t found the humour in anything in years.

Maybe Blind Willie wasn’t jerking him around. At first glance, he did look young. But those eyes…they’d looked into darkness. And they’d seen more than most. Eddie was well acquainted with the darkness, having seen a fair share himself. The fact that he’d always been able to slide out from under it had earned him the Greasy tag. But this guy…

What do they call him? Eddie asked. What’ziz name?

Dunno.

‘Dunno’? Whaddaya mean, ‘dunno’?

I don’t know. ‘Guy at the bar’ or ‘bar guy’ or whatever.

That just don’t make sense.

Dunno, Willie repeated. We ask, he pours. Never asked fer no name an’ he ain’t never offered, ain’t that right, Red?

Yup.

In fact, you din’t even ask ’im when he borrowed your truck that time t’ git t’ California, didja? I’m right, ain’t I?

Yup.

Eddie turned to Red, still plumbing the depths of his mug of beer. His salt-and-pepper hair hung limply around his face, reminding Eddie of that donkey from Winnie the Pooh. You tellin’ me you guys have been drinkin’ here for twenty-odd years and you never caught his name?

Yup. Red’s head barely moved.

Greasy Eddie was beginning to wonder what kind of weird-ass town he had stumbled upon. Don’t that strike either a’ you as a bit unnatural? Not knowin’ a man’s name?

Ain’t nuthin’ natch’rill ’bout No Hope, Willie replied.

‘No Hope’?

The bar. Willie spread an arm to encompass the establishment. This place is No Hope. The No Hope Bar, y’might say. Din’ja notice the thing with the sayin’ above the entrance?

Yeah, Eddie said, curious. So what?

Says, ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’?

Eddie snorted. Like that ‘dark ride’ sign over the bar?

Yup, said Red.

Yeah, so?

So. Abandon hope. No hope. He spread his hands to take in the room. The No Hope Bar.

Greasy Eddie nodded, getting it now. So what’s so unnatural about this place?

The clientele.

Oh yeah? Eddie snorted again. Like ol’ Stanley, there? Guy he just turfed?

Nope. Lots worse’n him. His voice lowered to a whisper as his eyes darted to the man behind the bar. Monsters, Eddie.

Willie, c’mon, Eddie said, thumping a thick calloused hand down on the table and wobbling the beer mugs precariously. He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. Got news for ya, man. There ain’t no such a thing.

After sittin’ in this seat for so damn long, I’m gonna have to beg to differ with you. Blind Willie’s single good eye narrowed down to a slit. He brought his face close to Eddie’s, close enough that Eddie could smell his beer breath and his unwashed body. I only got one good eye, but I seen ’em. They’re real, all right.

So you’re sayin’ this is like…a monster bar or something? Eddie asked.

Well, I guess you could say that. I’ll tell ya though, the goddamn vampires are the biggest pain in the ass, always havin’ to be invited in alla time. Willie shook his head. The worst. Ain’t I right, Red?

Yup, said Red morosely.

Eddie slumped back in his chair, unbelieving. But Willie had not smiled, not even a little. And Eddie could usually sense a liar, but his spider-sense wasn’t setting off any alarms right now. So he sat back and said nothing.

Blind Willie told him about the various visitors to the No Hope bar. The regulars—some here tonight, some making their appearances only on the weekend, others only on payday.

Then there were the stragglers, the one-timers, the where the hell am I’s? These last were the easiest to spot, entering the bar tentatively, eyes wide with apprehension, looking around as though they were expecting someone to harass them or to pick a fight, starting with the you ain’t from ’round here line.

That hardly ever happens, Willie said.

Then there was the special breed that always seemed to somehow find the little bar in the northern expanses of nowhere. Some found it out of desperation, or determination. Whatever the reason, this place attracted them. Those who needed confirmation of what they had seen, or experienced. To relate the story, to spin it and weave it into something that made some sort of sense. To unload it on someone else who gave more than a cursory nod or a suspicious glance. Someone who could affirm that, yes, that was real. That really happened. To give credence to what they had seen or done.

Over the years, Blind Willie explained to Eddie, he had met people who claimed to have seen vampires, werewolves, spirits, succubae and incubi, demons and angels, and things that had never been imagined in any book or movie. Hell, some of the things they mentioned demanded belief because they couldn’t be imagined. Some shit just couldn’t be made up.

There were also the ones who were looking to understand what they themselves had become. They were the fringe element that claimed not that they had seen these things, but that they were these things.

Then there were the legends. Willie had heard so many of those. He figured it was just a matter of time before they too would cross the threshold of this most unusual sanctuary: the two-century-old demon hunter whose only wish was to die, an avenging Angel of Death, the wicked thing that intruded on the dreams of those who slept, the Roswell man, the plant woman who fed you her tongue, the special ones who travelled backward through time.

Willie had heard all of these stories, and more just as improbable. And he believed them. All, without question. Because so many came looking for the nameless bartender, the guardian of the spirits.

Yeah, well, said Eddie, unnerved by it all, and still not believing the whole nine yards, I didn’t come lookin’ for no bartender or monsters or freaky people. All’s I wanna know is why I bin here a week an’ I still can’t find a decent one.

A decent one what, Eddie?

The best game in the world, Willie. Poker! I’m tryin’ to find where’s the best poker game in town?

The bartender dropped the bottle of Jack Daniels he was holding. It shattered on the floor, silencing the bar yet again.

Part Two

Out of the Light

Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness.

The Outsider

H. P. Lovecraft

Chapter One

As he hung suspended above the ground where the twisted metal and broken concrete lay, he wondered. As the water dripped like a metronome, his mind ticked over the infinite possibilities of what might have been. As the puddles of water reflected the dim light—only slightly brighter than the surrounding darkness—off shattered mirrors and cracked porcelain, he strained to see brighter outcomes.

If only…

As his broken body floated in mid-air and his twisted mind slid between the various realities, Stinky Pete pondered what might have been. What could have been.

If, just a few hours earlier, he had said yes instead of no.

If only he’d chosen a different path.

If only he had chosen, instead, to play a little poker…

♦ ♦ ♦

Pete awoke to a loud bang.

Then there was cursing from the hall, just outside his bedroom.

Fuggin shoes! His father’s bitching came through muffled beyond Peter’s bedroom door. His voice was sleep-mushy in a dopey, semi-drunk way. Who lef fuggin shoes out’na fuggin hall?

A few hours earlier, Pete had heard his father come back from his Friday night out, and, with a quick glance at Cheryl Tiegs’s bikinied bosom hanging on his wall, he had extinguished the light on his night table. Next, the clock radio was silenced. Pete Townshend’s plaintive voice cut short during his request to allow his love to open the door.

Francis Wilson, the man Pete’s mother once referred to as Peter’s donor, not his dad, had stumbled past Pete’s closed door and into his own room. Peter, under the covers and faking sleep, heard nothing after that and fell into his normal, cautious, hair-trigger sleep.

Until the bang.

♦ ♦ ♦

Are you fucking serious? Four fucking natural aces? I call bullshit!

Toad, said Crouch, dude, keep it down! My old man’s upstairs.

Sorry man. The Toad turned a suspicious eye from Crouch back to Stash. Stash’s just too goddamn lucky. The Toad had both arms wrapped around his torso and he was rocking as though in physical pain. He was losing money, so he probably was.

Yeah, it must be hard to sit there with all those horseshoes up your ass, Theo agreed.

Stash ignored them both. Read ’em and weep, suckers, he said, sliding his cards across the table to the still-rocking Toad with a theatrical flourish, then raking the poker chips toward him. They merged into an already remarkably large pile. He wore a shit-eating grin, carefully crafted to piss off the Toad even more. It worked.

Another Friday night, another poker game. The four friends exchanged money with each other on a weekly basis. Usually it was painless, but tonight Stash was gleefully flaying the Toad, one hand at a time. They all were, in fact, but none of the others had fallen to the depths of destitution the Toad was approaching. Stash, sixteen years old, a full year younger than the rest of them, was on a roll. Kickin’ ass and whaddayacallit takin’ down names, he kept saying, grinning teeth clenching an unlit Colt cigarillo.

It had to be unlit. Crouch’s father was cool, but not cool enough to permit underage smoking or drinking. He would tolerate no more than a modicum of swearing—it was poker after all, some swearing was necessary—and the music had to be turned down after ten p.m.

Though there were limits, they usually got away with more at Crouch’s place than at any of the other teens’ houses. Stash’s parents were also reasonable, but no swearing and no cigarettes, unlit or otherwise. No poker was ever played at the Toad’s house. His mother, an avid bingo player, disapproved of gambling. Theo’s house usually had the least restrictions, only because they played when Theo’s parents were absent altogether. The downside was they never knew when his parents would show up. Could be early, could be late. Either Theo’s dad struck out on all his attempts and belligerence, then came home raging drunk and looking for the fight he didn’t get at the event he had left, or he found the fight early—likely due to an unwanted come-on to another man’s woman—and came home more pissed that someone else had taken a strip or two off him. He was a fighter, but the only fights he won were the ones he picked at home.

Either way, bad news. But the four had gotten quite adept at keeping watch for the headlights coming down Theo’s drive. At the first sign of his parent’s return, they would scoop their individual winnings into their untucked shirts, the pot of poker chips went into a box top they kept handy, and the cards were quickly gathered and tucked in a back pocket. Theo would place the vase and the placemats in their proper positions as the others slipped out the back door.

If Theo was fast enough, he’d join them. If not, he suffered the wrath of his old man, taking the beatings and abuse to deflect the violence from his mother.

Some nights, he just had to let her fend for herself, knowing he could not take his father’s rage, knowing the guilt would affect him the next morning just as bad as the beating would have as he watched his mother fix breakfast with a swollen lip or eye, bruises purpling around her wrists.

Most of the time, she would have an excuse for it. Your dad didn’t mean to hit me. He was just so mad, Theo, and he just lashed out. I shouldn’t have pushed him. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. He didn’t mean it, not really. He said he was sorry and promised not to do it again. Then she would look at him with that pleading look he’d come to despise so much and say, You know he loves us, don’t you? You understand, don’t you?

Theo really didn’t know any such thing. But he still felt the guilt just as bad.

Tonight was a good night, though. Tonight was guilt-free. Theo’s dad had a furious head cold and was confined to bed, where the probability of violence was minimal. He would not lash out when he needed Theo’s mother to tend to his needs. Tonight, Theo could enjoy himself.

If only he could win some damn money.

Come on, Toad! Theo said. Quit your damn cryin’ and deal, for chrissakes.

Toad gathered the cards and began to shuffle. He had lost the pained expression and now looked simply thoughtful. The others prepared themselves. It only took the Toad a few seconds, then he unleashed it.

You guys ever notice how incredibly loud a fart sounds in the shower?

Dude, said Crouch, where’n the hell do you come up with this shit?

The shower, obviously, replied Theo.

No, seriously! Like, Cheech and Chong should be recording that stuff, man! I’m gonna write them. Give ’em a heads-up, like.

Stash, ever the thoughtful one, said, "Yeah, but they probably don’t because have you ever noticed how whaddayacallit wicked it smells when you fart in the shower?"

Yeah, said Crouch, a one-sided grin crossing his face. But my farts smell like little purple flowers.

Right. Toad look pained again.

But really, no one minds the smell of their own trouser coughs. Am I right? Crouch looked around the table. The other three nodded seriously. The man had a point.

The Toad, shuffling finished, began to deal. No game had been called as yet, so they knew not to look at the cards. Sometimes it took a few minutes to call the game. The Toad was still in scatology mode.

Speaking of smells, I gotta tell ya this! It was so fuh—

Dude! My dad! Crouch angled his head to the upper floor and dragged his lower lip to one side.

Sorry man, the Toad continued, not missing a beat, still dealing. A lot of cards out now. Baseball maybe? Anyway, it was so freakin’ cool. I had Cheerios for breakfast this morning and—check this out, it’s so cool—when I had a piss a couple of hours later? His face could barely contain his excitement.

Yeah?

Yeah, a couple of hours later, what?

"A couple of hours later, when I had a piss…it smelled just like freakin’ Cheerios!" His expression was triumphant.

There were mixed expressions of disbelief and awe from the other three. Okay, they collectively agreed, that was cool. It was also something to be tested.

"Sum’n tells me all our moms’ll be purchasing that particular brand of cereal real soon, Crouch said, a sly smile sliding across his face. Gonna smell so much better than asparagus piss."

The four sat quietly, savouring the thought of the upcoming tests. But only briefly.

Okay, Toad, said Theo. I need some cash! Call the game!

♦ ♦ ♦

By two in the morning, Stash had stripped them all of their money and they had turned to pool, then darts, and now they were surfing the channels looking for something good. Preferably with a lot of sex or violence. Preferably both.

It didn’t take long to check the four available channels. Squat. Diddly. Nada. Bupkis.

Man, this town sucks for TV, said the Toad. This coming from the guy who thought B.J. and the Bear was world-class entertainment.

"Isn’t Charlie’s Angels on soon?"

Not ’til three.

The first season? Farrah?

Farrah.

Oh yeah! I’m there, said Theo. Farrah was the best. The hottest woman in the world. And she never wore a bra.

Theo had her poster in his room. He stared at those nipples almost every night. She was unbelievable.

So, what do we do until three? Crouch asked.

We could figure out a fifth poker player.

Yeah, said the Toad. Someone who can lose! Stash’s fuckin’ killin’ me. Crouch let that one slide. His dad would have been in bed hours ago.

They all considered again. This was an old topic. Since they had lost Moose. It had been a tragic loss. Moose had a decent after-school job, loved poker, and played like shit.

But he refused to play anymore, ever since they had taught him a lesson.

♦ ♦ ♦

The fuggin shoes.

Pete knew the shoes weren’t his. His were safely tucked in the front hall closet as normal. They must have belonged to—

His father threw open Pete’s bedroom door, making Pete flinch. A millisecond later, the doorknob punched through the ever-growing hole in the drywall. He never subscribed to the Pete Townshend manner of opening the door with his love.

WHO LEF’ FUGGIN SHOES INNA HALL? His father was pissed. Pissed off. Piss drunk.

Pissed.

HAH? DIDJOO LEAVE EM THERE SO’S I COULD FALLUN MY ASS? Had his father not been so furious, he would have been laughable, barely standing, one hand on the punished doorknob for support, his naked body swaying in the moonlight.

HAH? GET A LAUGH AT YER OL’ MAN’S EXPENSE?

Peter was immobile, up on one elbow, the sheets in disarray. He could only stare at his dad, knowing anything he might say would only make the situation worse. Choosing the occasionally safe path of keeping his mouth shut, he simply stared at his father’s bloated nakedness. His dad looked corpse-like in the bluish lunar light.

I wish, he thought. I wish he was a corpse.

♦ ♦ ♦

Moose was a heavy drinker. But he was usually a fun drunk.

On poker nights, he usually had a few beers before heading over to the Friday night game, and he usually smuggled a few more in, stuffed into the waistband of his jeans and covered by his overlarge plaid lumber jacket. He would usually be tanked by ten. And that’s when he would start.

Moose was well over six feet tall. He was probably north of two hundred pounds, all of it muscle earned from his work on the family farm. He had a steady girlfriend and by all accounts—both his and hers—was sexually voracious.

In no way did he ever exhibit any signs of homosexuality whatsoever. Until he got all liquored up on poker nights.

On those nights, when intoxicated, the Moose would start up his overly-familiar request. It was a request that used to gross out the other four teens, each and every time.

When intoxicated, on poker nights, the Moose would bug the other four incessantly to play strip poker with him. Needless to say, each time the request came up, they rejected it immediately. Not one of the others ever felt a burning desire to get up close and personal optically with the Moose dick. There were no girls, for chrissakes!

The lack of female players never seemed to slow him down though. Week after week, Moose continued to harass the others. It really began to grate on their nerves. The Toad was almost moved to violence on a couple of occasions.

Three weeks back, Moose couldn’t make it. Date night with the girlfriend to see some shithead romantic comedy. The other four took advantage of his absence.

After the poker playing finished, the Toad had broached the topic in his usual subtle way.

What are we gonna do about Moose and his fuckin’ strip poker? He’s really starting to irritate my crotch. He didn’t mean that literally. It was a go-to expression the Toad busted out on occasion.

The others agreed, though none so vociferously.

The four of them had heard about homosexuality, sure. It was 1981, who hadn’t? And it wasn’t that they hated anyone of that persuasion, it was just that New Hope was a small town. If there was a homosexual here, no one knew about it. And god knows they’d seen enough nakedness, having to change in cramped changerooms at school. No, it wasn’t hate so much as fear of an unknown. Then again, they’d all been born and raised here, and in their seventeen years—sixteen in Stash’s case—they hadn’t even seen anyone of a colour other than white, unless they travelled two hours to the closest large city.

Yes, New Hope was a sheltered, backward town, existing in the eighties, but stuck in a value system twenty years out of date. Which made them uncomfortable at the idea of a guy—and a friend, at that—wanting to play a game where five guys ended up in various states of nakedness.

Over the next hour or so, the four hatched a plan. It was initially Theo’s idea. Theo always seemed to be the man with the plan. Maybe it came from all the scheming he did to keep himself out of his old man’s shit. Maybe it was just the way his mind was wired. Regardless, it was a good plan, a righteous plan.

It would be executed the following week, when Crouch’s dad—who was the coroner for Clarington District—would be out of town on business.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next week, Moose was back, drinking his face off, regaling them with stories of his sexual exploits from the week before. Those romance movies make Cyn hot! he explained. Works for me.

The others acted as though nothing was out of the ordinary. They let him drink himself into his normal semi-stupor.

Then they waited. It would come.

They weren’t disappointed.

Hey guys, slurred Moose, I got ’n idea. Le’s play strip poker.

The others didn’t want to make it too obvious, so they put up a token resistance. Just enough to lull Moose into a sense of security.

They gave him fifteen minutes before they relented.

Come on, dudes, Crouch said, barely hiding the smirk. Every week Moose asks us, and every week we say no. Come on, let’s do it. He put a hand on Moose’s shoulder. Let’s do it for Moose.

The others made a show of reluctantly agreeing.

All right, I guess so…

Yeah, but just this once, man.

Moose was incredulous. He could barely contain himself.

Really? You guys’ll really play? Aw, that’s so cool! Thanks, guys! You’re the best!

They dealt the cards, and encouraged Moose to have another beer. They kept him talking and he never noticed the surreptitious transferring of cards between the other four.

They cheated their asses off, allowing only the occasional loss. A sock here, a watch there. Moose was drunk enough that he didn’t realize exactly how bad he was going down. Each time he lost, it was greeted with a chorus of Whooooaaaa! and Take off something else! He would giggle like a girl and remove another article of clothing.

When he got down to the removal of his underwear, Crouch stipulated that he had to put his T-shirt on the chair first, before his naked ass hit it. There is no way I’m gonna explain skid marks on the furniture to my dad, he said.

By now, Moose was sloppy drunk and pliable as Silly Putty. That’s when Phase Two of Theo’s plan kicked in. He gave a slight nod to Stash.

Okay, guys, here’s a ‘what if?’ for ya’s, Stash said.

How long do you think it would take to run from Crouch’s front porch to the whaddayacallit stop sign at the end of the road?

Oh, a good couple of minutes, I would think, answered Theo.

Moose fidgeted.

You think? said the Toad. I don’t know…maybe a minute and a half, tops. What do you think, Crouch?

Moose’s head wobbled from one person to the next, his eyes trying to track the conversation, his booze-soaked brain trying desperately to calculate the distance, wind speed, velocities, and time factors.

I’ve lived here a while, dudes, Crouch