33.

As I pushed my bar stool back and stood up, I realized I was more drunk than I had expected. I put a hand out to steady myself on the bar. I had known Abby Stevens for a year, and I had never known him to be anything but a complete and utter ass. For a year he had been the last straw in a life that had been bad enough to begin with, and I couldn't hold back the urge to put him on his ass any longer. I pointed with my free hand, which wavered unsteadily at Abby's huge, stupid face.

"You goin' somewhere?" The words overflowed from my mouth. Abby glared instensly. I opened my mouth again, allowing more words to spill forth. "Are you just going to stand there? Abby." Of course, the ultimate insult was to remind him of his first name rather than using his last. He bit his lip and clenched his fist.

"Alright Paul," he said. "I've been lookin' for an excuse to do this for a long time. Hope you're ready for a beatin'."

"Hang on," I said, before he could raise his fists. "Hey barman, get us another round." The bartender appeared and sullenly refilled our glasses with whiskey. Abby and I drank our glasses quickly, our infuriated eyes never leaving the other's face. Abby slammed his glass down first, then I did the same.

"Alright," I said, "Let's go." I thought I had the element of surprise on my sides, but my pouncing hay-maker fell short and the alcohol in my system allowed its momentum to carry me to Abby's boots. I started to get back up, but one of his boots came off the floor, then down onto my back. My chest plowed into the hard wood floor causing the air to evacuate my lungs, and like the crack of a whip my face was slung into the surface.

"Paul," he said, "you are going to regret ever being born."

The pain felt oddly distant, and I managed to retort, "That's nothing new, Abby." He laughed, a much less friendly laugh than before, and ground his boot into my back. From somewhere I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the bartender's voice said, "What'll it be?" Abby's boot stopped moving at the sound of the voice that responded. It was that of my old acquaintence, the pirate.

"Make it rum," he said.

Abby's foot lifted off my back as he turned toward the bar. He whispered down to me, "What the Hell kind of bar is this?" I started to get up, but he put his foot down onto my back again. "Hey," he said, addressing the pirate, "What the Hell are you?"

The pirate turned around slowly, skin looking darker than ever. He stared right into Abby's eyes as he stood up, removed his pipe from his trench coat, and lit it.

"Nay, matey," the pirate drawled in his thick and completely unrecognizable accent. "The question you should be askin' me is, what are you?" From my place on the floor, I couldn't see Abby's face clearly, but I had the feeling it was beginning to turn red with anger. Several seconds passed as Abby obviously struggled to come up with a response, and the pirate tilted his head down to observe my body, stretched out on the floor. "Looks like you've got ye a prisoner. What be his name?"

"P-Paul Crawford," Abby stammered. "That's the name they're gonna put on his headstone tomorrow, anyway."

"And what be your name?" asked the pirate.

"Abby," he said, "Abby Stevens."

The pirate apparently chocked on his smoke, coughed a bit, and started laughing. After a few intermittent attempts to compose himself, he finally did. "Abby," he said reflectively. "Well, we'll omit the first name from your headstone. Don't want nobody thinkin' yer' a homosexual."

Abby's boot rose off of my back and I heard him stomp over to the pirate. "What?" he said, and paused, "Did you just say?" I dragged myself backward away from the bar and looked up cautiously. Abby was towering over the pirate, looking incredibly pissed, while the pirate continued to puff on his pipe and chuckle to himself. Abby glanced back over his shoulder at me. "Well, looks like the gravedigger's gonna make a bundle tonight," he said. By now conversation in the bar had stopped, and the patrons were all focused expectantly on Abby and the pirate. I pulled myself up to the bar top again and waved to the bartender.

"Ten bucks on the pirate," I croaked.

"Sorry, we don't allow betting here, sir." The bartender walked to the end of the bar to exchange words with the bouncer. It looked as though the fight was to be cut short.

"If you'll excuse me," said the pirate, "I have some business I need to be tending to with your prisoner, there."

"Him?" Abby asked in disbelief. "And you're calling me a homosexual?"

"I'm calling you a god damn piece of shit," said the pirate who laughed and tipped his stein to his mouth.

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