A site guest visit to an old post compelled me to re-read it. Painful is the only way to describe it. The bad news is the ideas were all over the place. The good news is that the story I posted along with it had a little bit of merit to it. So, instead of writing new fiction, I tried to whittle down an old story.
Originally, it clocked in at over 6,000 words. I trimmed it down to 1,700. The ideas are still insane – I’ve no problem with crazy ideas – but the story is there. It’s an absurd story to be sure, but I’m okay with that, too. Let’s call it “The Promise” for now.
“I promised not to kill anyone today,” Decker said. “and I don’t intend to break it.”
He stood, hands palms down on the polished, black marble bar, staring at his reflection in the mirrored wall of glass shelves stocked with assorted, multi-coloured bottles of booze.
“I could give a shit,” the muscled man behind him said, biceps bulging in his short sleeved Henley shirt. “Put on your fucking mask.”
The bartender couldn’t back away fast enough.
“Where you going, Jimmy?”
Jimmy pulled back his mask slightly so his low voice could be heard.
“It’s the law, Decker,” Jimmy said, slinking back.
“Pardon me?” Decker said.
“You heard the man. It’s the fucking law.”
He watched the man in the mirror as he looked to his friends for support, each of one as bicep-bulging as the other, all of them dressed like they came to a style decision on a conference call before going out. Sitting among them was a blonde hair, blue eyed girl with smoky mascara, long fake eyelashes, lips like a cut fig above a midriff baring tee shirt and a denim mini skirt, heels of her pink accented, tanned leather cowboy boots hooked on the rung of her barstool.
Absurdly, he took note of deep tan – trying to puzzle out the design behind the coloured ink of the tattoo that curled around her hip.
Looks like a wing.
She sipped away absently at some neon pink concoction that Decker thought looked like liquid bubble gum.
“She’s not wearing a mask,” Decker pointed out. “And neither are your buddies.”
“We’re at a table,” he said. “Together. You’re alone. At the bar. Put on your fucking mask.”