Yellow Mama E zine

Walt’s Bar

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Louis Kummerer

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        Sounds like a joke, right? Mathew, Mark, Luke and John walk into a bar.

         Me and my crew walk into Walt’s Bar, but we ain’t no joke. We ain’t nothing to fuck with, so let’s get that straight up front.

         Walt’s Bar is a shithole but we come here because it’s mostly empty in the afternoon and people tend to keep to themselves. So it’s a safe place to talk about any shit we got going down for the night.

         Luke always comes strapped. He says, the way we roll, we gotta be ready. And he’s right. There’s some crazy fools out there and they need to know we don’t play.

         That’s Rambo down at the end of the bar. He’s a piece of shit. He’s like, I don’t know—way old. Seventies or something. His real name’s Walt. Perfect name for an old asshole, am I right?

          “Hey Rambo, your granddaughter working today?” Luke yells.

          Rambo’s, like, polishing glasses or some shit. Acts like he don’t hear Luke.

          “Hey!” Luke shouts really loud.

          Rambo turns and drags his fucked-up leg down to where we are. He gives us this evil look, like his crippled old ass is going to jump over the bar and fuck us up. “That’s none of your business,” he says.

           “Whoa, Rambo, chill dude,” Luke pretends like he’s really scared, “I’m not fucking with you, man. That’d be crazy.”

           “Name’s not Rambo,” Rambo says as he hobbles back down to the end of the bar.

            We call the old bastard Rambo because Mathew was in here one time and Rambo and some other old dude were at the end of the bar talking really low, like it was some kind of big secret. Some shit about Vietnam, from what Mathew could tell, and that’s how Rambo got his leg fucked up. So now we call him Rambo, even though we know it pisses him off. Fuck him.

We’re shooting pool when Rambo’s granddaughter Kelly comes in. We all stop and stare as she walks toward the bar.

           “Good afternoon, Miss Kelly,” Luke says, tipping his hat as she walks by.

           “How you boy’s doing?” Kelly says, but she says it like she don’t really give a shit.

           “I’d like to be doing you,” Luke says. She just walks straight to the bar and pretends she doesn’t hear him. Cold-ass bitch.

           Luke and John have this bet over who’s going to nail Kelly first. I’m out because she’s like 30’s, maybe. Married, kids. Nice ass, but why step to that shit when there’s plenty of young booty around, you see what I’m saying? Save tapping MILF’s for when we get old.

         Thing is with Luke, the dude gets something in his head and that’s where shit is going.

          “Hey, Kelly,” Luke yells, “How about another round back here. Wild Turkey. No ice.”

          When Kelly brings the drink over to the pool table, Luke moves in front of her, blocking her way back to the bar.

          “Hey, let me ask you something,” Luke says, “Why you always got to be like this with me?”

          “Six bucks for the whiskey,” she says, moving around him.

          “Hey, hey, hey,” Luke grabs her arm from behind and pulls her around to face him.

          “Look at me,” he says, “I’m not a bad-looking guy, right?” He reaches up and lightly touches her hair, “You’re a good-looking woman. What’s the harm if we have a little fun?”

          The three of us are watching this action because Luke’s a player and we want to see how this goes down. We’re so focused on him that we don’t even notice Rambo come limping around the bar with a sawed-off pump shotgun.

           Suddenly, out of nowhere, there he is charging up to Luke. Faster than shit, Rambo does a roundhouse swing with the butt of the shotgun that catches Luke on the side of the head. Then he immediately comes back with the heel of the butt square to Luke’s chin. Luke staggers backward and starts reaching for his 9. But Rambo has already racked the shotgun and pointed it at Luke’s chest. He’s got this crazy look in his eye and Luke just, like, freezes.

           “I’ve killed men before,” Rambo says, still glaring hard at Luke. “Dangerous men, not candy-ass pukes like you.”

           “Course that was a long time ago,” he says with a shrug, “So maybe you’re wondering if I still got it in me.”

           He braces the shotgun hard against his shoulder.

           “Well, Romeo?” he says, his voice cold as ice, “Want to find out?”

           Luke’s face goes all white. His lip is split open and he’s almost shitting his pants, he’s so scared. And, man, all of us are scared cause this motherfucker has flipped and he’s back in Nam now lighting up gronks—or whatever they called them. He’s likely to waste us and cut our ears off for souvenirs, or some shit. I’m like trying to keep from pissing my pants, I swear to God. I mean, we’re bad and all, but this shit that’s going down right here? We ain’t never seen nothing like this before.

          Luke slowly puts his hands up. Rambo keeps his finger wrapped around the shotgun’s trigger.

           “You punks listen good,” he growls, “You get your pansy asses out of my bar. And if I ever see you in here again, I’m going to kill you on sight. Am I making myself clear?”

           We’re all too freaked out to say anything.

          “Am I making myself clear?” Rambo roars like a mad dog.

           “Yes, sir” we stammer and then we’re, like, running towards the door.

           Outside, still shaking, we start walking to our car.

           “Holy fuck, I thought we were going to die,” Mathew says.

           “Motherfucker’s straight-up crazy,” John says, “We need to find a bar for sane people.”

           “A bar where there’s some young pussy,” I say.

            “Yeah,” Luke says, pressing a handkerchief against his bleeding lip, “Old people suck.”

 

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      Louis Kummerer is a technical writer working and living in Phoenix, Arizona. His work has been published in New Delta Review, The Brussels Review, Bristol Noir, 10x10 Flash, Yellow Mama, Punk Noir, Micromance, CaféLit, Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, and 101 Words. A collection of his work appears at louk247-fiction.com.

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       Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.