Chapter 2: Bar Fight

The entire establishment went silent. The waitress behind the counter stared gawk-eyed at the

two men moving around the pool table. The middle-aged men sitting at bar twisted themselves on their stools to get a better look at the fight. While none of them laid down bets, these men sized the combatants and tried to figure out the odds.

In the first corner stood Casper ‘Caz’ Brakes, a no-good barfly and local nuisance. Everyone in the town had some story about Caz, most of them unpleasant -- that being said, the stories made for great chatter around a bottle of beer. The kid had been one of their own sons, a homeboy, who worked on the ranch down the road. The family herded cattle and bred horses. Occasionally, some bigshot would wander into town in order to procure one of their trophy foals.

While Caz had the strength of a farmboy, he did not inherit the strength of his father. Townsfolk never stopped whispering about the time his father stopped a charging bull with his bare hands. The man gripped the horns of the beast and brought it to a standstill. No one remembered who saw this feat of strength, but the sheer size of man lent credibility to the stories.

Caz, nearly the spitting image of his father, lacked those physical talents. His skills hid in the more technical combat arts. When he was growing up, his father would take him hunting and taught him how to use a lever-rifle. At an early age, Caz developed his own reputation around handling firearms. Any gun that fell into his hand could be turned into a weapon of precision. In this bar, without a gun, Caz would be without his greatest advantage.

In the other corner stood Jack ‘Smiles’ Gadshill, an ex-brawler from the city. As a young man, Smiles made his money through bare-knuckle combat. For years, he would enter into the ring, money wagered on his own name, and would fight until he could fight no more. But those days had long gone. That brash young buck withered into a sour old man, broken down by repeated blows to the head and made worse by a hefty drinking problem. The years of self-inflicted abuse turned Smiles into an unstable man. One moment, he would be laughing and calling you his best friend, and, in the next, he would be threatening to turn your bowels inside out with a switchblade. The men of the town continually debated whether or not it is better to be a friend or a stranger to Smiles.

As the two fighters prowled around the pool table, most of the men in the bar settled on Smiles as the favourite, but felt unsure of the final result.

Caz took a swing with his pool cue. Smiles, still seething in his anger, chuckled at the missed blow. He continued to approach the kid with long strides. His footsteps struck the floor with intensity. Step by step, he drew closer.

Caz took another swing. This time, he almost connected with Smiles’ head. The old man leaned backward to avoid the blow. The memories of being a prize-fighter roared life into him. He sensed the vapours of his former glory. ‘Oh,’ he thought, ‘pummeling this kid into the ground would be a welcome experience.’

Caz swung the cue again, but Smiles caught it with the back of his forearm.

Smiles seized the cue, pulled the kid closer, and shouted into his face. The insane yelp energized his bloodlust. He wanted another tally upon his great series of victories. He wrestled the cue from the young man’s hands and kicked kid into one of the booths. The kid floundered on the fake-leather banquette. Smiles, having successfully pried the cue from the young man, taunted. He lifted the cue behind his head and struck the booth’s table. He struck the table again and again. Each blow filled the bar with the sound of wood cracking. On his fourth strike, the pool cue shattered in half. Fragments of wood flew into the air. Violently, Smiles threw the jagged half of the cue onto the floor. They bounced and slid across the room.

Caz climbed over the booth, trying to escape the reaches of this crazed man. In manic pursuit, Smiles clambered onto the table and snagged for Caz’s leg. Caz fell into the next booth, his back striking the table. The old man kept his grip and a wicked grin flashed across his face. Caz, still sprawled on his back, raised his foot and kicked the old man in the head. Caz continued to salvo kicks with his heavy boots until he was free.

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Smiles became dazed from the blows. His vision blurred.

Caz rolled off the table and fell to the floor. He stumbled to his feet and stepped backward. He needed space between him and the mad man. His searched the bar for anything he could use as a weapon.

Before Caz seized a large liquor bottle, Smiles got to his feet and sprinted at the kid. He lunged and brought him to the floor. The old man wrapped his calloused hands around the kid’s throat and began to squeeze the life from him.

Caz choked and sputtered. His hands flailed. He managed a few weak blows against Smiles, but they hardly bothered the seasoned fighter. As Caz’s vision slowly darkened, he relaxed his arms and hands. At the very moment, he accepted his own death, his fingers touched one of the fragmented halves of the pool cue. He grasped it with his remaining strength. In a single adrenaline-fueled movement, he brought the jagged end of the pool cue into the old man’s throat. Blood gushed from the wound. The old man loosened his grip. He struggled to his feet, placing one hand firmly on the imbedded object in his neck. His long grey beard drank the deep crimson.

Smiles steadied himself with the bar counter, causing the middle-aged men around the bar to flee from their spots. The waitress gasped in horror as Smiles yanked the half-cue from his neck. Blood shot from the wound and covered the counter. After a few uneasy seconds, he collapsed on the floor.

Caz slumped into a chair, breathing heavily.

Ash Clearly, the mind behind the body, won his first fight. He felt an internal chime, as though the experience of the fight had been rewarded by a miniscule boost. He could not believe that he had just killed a man -- well, not quite killed him, but the wound might prove fatal.

One of the middle-aged men grabbed a towel from the counter and began to treat the neck wound. He called to the others to get help.

Ash remained his chair, trying to take control of his breathing. The oddity of the whole situation struck him. He started to laugh involuntarily. He, Ash Clearly, the scrawny kid who always came last during the physical contests, won. While it wasn’t his body -- or any body, since this experience was virtual -- it was his mind. He had been in control the whole time.

The waitress approached him with a glass of water in her hand.

“I thought you’d like some water,” she said.

Ash nodded his head in thanks. As he reached for the cup, the waitress took the glass and tossed its contents in his face.

“Are you daft! Are you out of your mind? What did I tell you, Caz? You’re not allowed in here!”

“What?” Ash responded in confusion.

“Don’t play dumb with me. We’ve known each other long enough to know how much you owe me! How much you owe everyone! Now, I have to add a pool cue to your tab. And who knows what’ll happen if ol’ Jack Smiles dies in my establishment. What will I tell the Sheriff?”

“I can pay you back,” Ash stammered.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard that from you before.”

Ash pushed himself from his chair. Surely, Caz must have something valuable on his person. He began to pat down every square inch of his avatar’s body, looking for pockets. He had been wearing a thin corduroy sweater and a sleeveless leather jacket. He reached into the four pockets of the vest and removed everything from it. Its meager contents plopped upon the table: a flip-lighter, a packet of cigarettes, a small metal coin, a pair of rough knit gloves, and a bundle of five playing cards held together by a bobby pin. Seeing nothing of value, he checked his tattered denim pants. They were made of a very thick denim, but had been thoroughly caked with dirt and grim. He pulled out a bottle cap, a handful of bullets, a switchblade, and the snub of a pencil. He padded himself down his legs to his ankles, where he found a combat knife holstered on the interior of his boot. He decided to leave it in place.

“Useless, Caz, useless.” The waitress picked one of the bullets and spun it in her fingers. “If this is all you have, I won’t even give you the satisfaction of accepting one of these.” She threw the bullet back onto the green velvet of the pool table. It rolled off to the side and into the corner pocket.

Ash started to gather everything up, when an idea struck him.

“Hey! How about I pay you in some other way,” he said, raising his eyebrows seductively.

[Charisma Check Failed]

“Are you kidding me! You are unbelievable, Caz! Unbelievable!” The waitress took dirty bar rag from the counter and threw it in his direction.

Four points in Charisma could only go far.

‘Oh, well,’ Ash thought to himself, ‘it was worth a shot.’

As he replaced his things into his pockets, two men and a woman entered the bar.

“Alright, everyone, we’re going set things straight,” the man at the front of the group said. His face bore a serious mien, the kind of face carved with deep lines. “Janet, I’m going to need you in the other room. Officer Carhart will begin his interviews with you. The rest will have to wait your turn.”

The waitress gave an exasperated sigh and moved into the other room with Officer Carhart.

As the Sheriff spoke, the medic ran to the side of the bleeding Jack Smiles. She opened a makeshift bundle of medical supplies and began doctoring.

“And you,” the Sheriff said, pointing to Caz. “You’re need to step outside for me.”