Chopper blades spinning. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Jim Morrison wailing. Music fades. Rotor blades resolve into overhead fan. Table top. Brandy bottle, tumbler. Pack of smokes. Menu holder.
Our grizzled hero lies in a booth in a deserted pub, his legs dangling from the bench, wild eyes staring up at the ceiling.
"Booth 18. Shit. I'm only in Booth 18."
Picks up glass of fruit juice, raises to lips with shaking hand.
"When I was home from my first Christmas it was worse. When I was here, I wanted to be there. When I was there all I could think of was getting back on the bar. I'm here all morning now, waiting for a mission ... Getting softer. Every minute I stay in this booth, I get weaker ... And every minute Charlie, and Kev, and Ian, all the Dad-Lads, they roam the streets, getting stronger."
The Doors start up again, then abruptly shut off. Too early for that 60s Spotify playlist.
"Everyone gets everything he wants. I wanted a mission. And for my sins, they gave me one. Brought it over like breakfast."
Two starched-collar team-leaders saunter over, swinging key fobs.
"Rob, we have orders to take you-"
"-What are the charges?"
"...There are... no charges. You have orders to report to the Manager, as soon as you're free. Come on, Supervisor, let's get you cleaned up."
They lift our man under the armpits, hoist him to his feet, brush pain au chocolat crumbs from his beard...
IN THE MANAGER'S OFFICE:
The Manager is sat with his assistant. Plates of food scattered about. They look up as our supervisor enters.
"Hiyaaa. Well, we're eating. We've got, let's see ... sweet potato fries, and usually they're not bad. Perhaps we'll pass both ways to save time. Supervisor, I don't know how you feel about this pumpkin ravioli, but if you eat some, you'll never have to prove your courage in any other way."
Supervisor takes a spoonful, tears it apart, chews slowly.
Manager passes Supervisor a piece of paper.
"This is today's rota. I'm going home. I was here at 2am last night, and I was back at 7am this morning. My methods have become ... unsound. You guys can take it from here."
Manager goes home. Supervisor stands on bar with Assistant. Their troops arrive, just kids, barely old enough to shave. Together they enter the heart of darkness of the Sunday two days before Christmas with no functioning ice machine, no change in the safe, hordes of amassing attackers arrayed in glowing comedy Christmas jumpers, Santa hats, Barbour jackets. One group wrapped in silver paper, throwing tampons about the pub. It's a whole thing. Another unclipping the rope being used to cordon off an area and attempting to clip it through their noses. Gas goes. A beer line snaps. Bar is like the last operating base upriver in Vietnam. Bodies everywhere. "Who's in charge here?" "Shit, man, ain't you?"
Then it's done. They've made it through. Then customer comes to the bar. "Just thought you should know, someone's been sick out of the gents' toilet, and across the landing, and all down the stairs."
"The horror. The horror."
......
Music: BAM BAM BA BA BAAAM BAAM, BAM BA BA BAA BAAM....!
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