The neon light made the entire bar look like sea creatures, beast of fauna. On the barstool, long arms like weeds stretched to hold onto a bloody Mary, light on the tomato juice. Some held dollar beers, cans busted from the cold and the heat of the bar.
He'd had enough of these people. Forty some plus years, busting his ass, he deserved to be the king of some castles. This bar was one of them, his kingdom. No twenty-something was going to push him around. He'd piss the barstool if he had to.
They all looked pretty similar these days, backwards hats and baggy pants. All with the stubble of yesterday frisking their lips.
And that one lousy looking mother fucker there at the end, who the fuck did he think he was? Sitting there in his sunglasses, his spine all jellyfish, staring at him. The king? He ought to teach this mother fucker a lesson.
He rose from his barstool throne, chugged down his drink. In two steps, he'd reached him, slumped there. In two pops, he'd knocked him, blood leaking from the back of his head. Oh, yeah. He'd taught this kid a lesson.
"I was sleeping!" The kid's startled face now had a blubbering lip.
"You're outta here, man. What the fuck is wrong with you?"