A Cordial Conversation

Whiskey. The rich, golden-brown liquor was masterly poured into a crystal-clear glass by the bartender of that particular bar. The liquor hit the top of the ice that resided at the bottom.

The atmosphere of the bar was loud and cheerful. Two men sat on fancy high stools. One of them wore a laid-back outfit: a fancy, dark blood-red button-up shirt and grey—slightly ripped—jeans. The build was rather skinny, to the extent that his cheeks were hollowed. He seemed to enjoy himself and his drink.

Loud classical music enchanted the whole place. Strangers danced with one another. The chatter of best friends who shared their recent endeavours.

The other man, however, was wearing a more odd outfit. Heavy, laced, black boots. A light button-up under a long, black leather coat, its faint scratches and small tears exposing its wear and tear. The man's appearance was overall pretty scruffy. Black, lazily slicked back hair and an overgrown beard. His looks were particularly unkempt.

“I am telling yah—she was the greatest. I mean, the things she could do… Mh, the best you could have in all the City of Crimsonbrick,” announced the fancy man.

“...Mmh.” The man examined the top of the bar. There were scratches all over, some more pronounced, due to its frequent use. He deemed it more interesting than the conversation at hand.

“A cute, petite, little thing. Oh, but fierce! Very fierce. Ahah… Gets my blood pumping just thinking about it…” he spouted. “Room nineteen. Ask for Lilith, she is the one.”

The man in the long coat gets his hand around the crystal glass. His lips gripped—ever so slightly—to the edge of the glass as he took his sip. What followed was a soft, satisfactory noise.

“Come on. Open up a little. I have been pulling my heart and soul here, guy.”

The man looked over.

“What are we looking at here? Regular visits,” he asked.

“Hah, of course. If you knew how that cunt felt you would be a visitor yourself.”

“You know who she’s working under, then?”

The spouty drunk man raised his eyebrow.

“The fuck do you care? None of your fuckin’ business now, is it?”

“Sure.”

“Huh? Sure? The hell is the matter with you, man? You barely open your fuckin' mouth, and when you do finally open that trap, you say shit like, sure or some half-assed grunts. Who the fuck are you, huh? You are no fun. Some fucki—”

A loud noise and a lingering silence thereafter. The enraged and drunk man dropped to the ground hard; taking the stool with him. The man was motionless. Blood oozed out of the side of his head.

The quiet man stayed seated in his place. His left hand was still gripping the crystal-clear glass. He put it up to his mouth to drink the last of it. However, his right hand was raised, pointing towards where the other man was sitting. He held a pistol; a revolver. A six-shooter Colt Python.

“...Hate when they talk too much,” he said to himself.

It almost felt like time stopped. Everyone froze. The classical music is gone. Chatter between friends was no more. All of them looked over at the bar with fear in their eyes as they saw the long-coated man just sitting there after presumably killing somebody.

All of a sudden, the dead man's body started to twitch in an inhumane way. His face twisted and turned aggressively, distorting its flesh. A couple of veins popped on his forehead, and the irises of his wide-open eyes turned a bright red. His flesh changed into the colour of ash and wrinkled like that of a plum that had dried.

Five men from the crowd stood up, whipping out guns from their belts, and aiming them at the quiet man. Before they had the chance to shoot, the man grabbed the opposite side of the bar and pulled himself over.

“Agh,” he grunted, dropping back first, onto the wooden floor.

Guns? Really, the man thought to himself.

The bartender ran past him with terror flooding his face. The ominous, suit-wearing men started shooting. The hard liquor shattered as bullets touched them. All hell broke loose. People screamed and shouted, as they tried to get out of the building. With panic, tripping over each other, so desperate to get out.

“Ah…something stronger," the bearded man acknowledged. Referring to an old, unopened bottle of what seemed to be expensive whiskey from under the counter. Sluggishly, he grabbed the bottle, opened it and took a swig as bullets continued to fly above him. The bottles exploded, as the contents splashed on the floor and onto the man. Getting him drenched in alcohol.

The shooters paused their mayhem in hopes that the man was dead. Most people have made their escape. Liquor dripped down from the shelves. The sound of droplets hitting the floor could be heard in all that silence.

Suddenly, a bottle is flung across the room from behind the bar. It grabbed the attention of the shooters. They shot in the bottle's general direction.

One. Two. Three. Fou—

Three bodies dropped dead. After the man used his distraction. He managed to easily shoot three of them dead with his revolver, though missing the fourth shot. He retreated down under the bar once again.

...Missed one? Shit.

The man pressed the back of his head on the liquor-wet floor, his medium-length hair absorbing it. He looked defeated, almost disappointed as he was laying in the puddle of liquor.

“You guys have just wasted a lot of booze… And my coat is drenched,” he added.

The two remaining shooters started to approach the bar slowly.

“...But you know what? I'm not going to hold it against you. Yeah, we can still be friends. If—of course—you don't try and shoot me.”

“Come out, you fool,” they called out, totally ignoring his offer. They approached the bar quickly, breaking the distance between them and the man.

The bearded man popped up from behind the counter. He fired his last bullet at the shooter furthest from him, killing him instantly. And then he smacked the closest with the long barrel of his gun.

He grabbed the last shooter by the back of the neck and forced the crystal glass—the same one he had previously drank out of—into his mouth. Furthermore, he slammed the shooter down onto the floor. With teeth already shattered from the impact, the man delivered a final blow by stomping the face and making the glass go down further. Finally, killing the last shooter.

He sighed. “No to friends, then.”

The gentle and sweet sound of silence. Everyone who was at that establishment had long evacuated, informing the police—that were probably on their way.

The long-coated man made his way towards his first victim. He knelt and started going through the corpse's pockets. The dead man's face was grey and distorted as before. The skin on his cheeks peeling off some.

“Come on, Pant. You gotta have something for me… Ah, bingo.”

After thoroughly checking the pockets, the man pulled out an unsealed envelope from Pant’s front vest pocket.

The man secured it in his pocket while grabbing a bottle of whiskey that had, miraculously, not been shattered. He opened it and took a celebratory swig.

“You outdid yourself with this one,” he said to Pant’s dead body, as he poured the contents of the bottle over the corpse's face.

He looked around at his other victims, the five shooters, who now seemingly had their faces twisted and turned as well. With the same shade of ash that has abducted their bodies. All also had red, glowing eyes.

“Always hiding in plain sight, huh?”