Four

This began as a personal exercise in creative characterization, although I'll admit to later using it in a writing class when I found myself stuck (got an A!). The challenge is to guess who the characters are, preferably without taking advantage of resou

 

A little bell rang, warning the empty bar that a blast of cold air was about to come through. The tall, well-built man stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together was dressed up like some medieval king about to ride forth to battle. His gleaming mail was certainly a magnificent (and probably expensive) replica at the least, and the snow white fur cloak (the color of his skin) that hung from his shoulders was definitely real. But the thing which most caught the bartender's gaze was the crown resting atop the man's blond head. It shone as if actually made of gold.

 

“Getcha something?” the bartender asked carefully. It wasn't fear that put the edge of caution in his voice. No, this man would cause no trouble; even if he wanted to, the 12-gauge under the bar would certainly keep him in line. It wasn't the strangeness of his costume either. After all, a man who goes about questioning the mental stability of his patrons is a man that will soon find himself out of business, especially with times being so hard. No, there was something else about this tall blond man that made the normally stoic bartender hesitate.

“Do you have any champagne?” The man asked, letting the door swing shut.

“Champagne? No offense buddy, but do this look like a place that's got champagne?” The bartender flicked his eyes back to the television, where a bit of static had begun to obscure the game. His team was losing, and now it looked like his only potential customer of the day was a nut job. What a s****y day, he thought.

“No fear, my good man,” the nut job said, “In lieu of a celebratory drink, I might as well warm up a bit. Vodka on the rocks, if you don't mind.” The bartender turned his tired brown eyes back to the stranger's vibrant blue ones, his interest renewed now that the man was ordering.

“Ain't that weather somethin'?” he set out a glass and dropped some ice into it. “I swear it's getting' colder every year.” He poured out a third of a glass of his better vodka. No sense angering a nutjob.

“Ah, yes. Well, it is you know. To be expected, what with things going the way they are.” Ain’t that the f*****g truth, thought the bartender, giving the television a sullen glance. Still, what else was there to do?

“So, what's with the fancy get-up? Headin' to a party somewhere?”

“Yes, you might say that.” The blond stranger chuckled. “Actually, it's what I came into town for. I’m meeting a few friends here first, though.” He sipped the vodka, and then frowned at it, as if surprised by the taste.

Just then, the bell over the door jingled again and another burst of cold air rolled through the bar. The blond man looked up with interest, and then started laughing. The bartender stared open-mouthed at his latest patron. The woman stood nearly as tall as the blond man, and, dressed in blood-red form-fitting plate-mail, looked like something out of one of those Japanese games kids used to play. An enormous sword protruded from a sheath on her back, its hilt obscured by coal black hair blowing about in the wind, and beneath the armor he could see that her skin was a brown, almost reddish tinge, made brighter, no doubt, by the cold evening air. Her eyes, which matched her hair, darkened even more at the man’s laugh. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman the bartender had ever seen.

“Don't laugh, hon, this is the style these days. Don't you watch TV?” she said with a grin. A burst of static from the television punctuated her sentence. The blond man sipped his vodka again, calming himself.

“If you say so. And yes, I’ve kept up. Still, you look ridiculous.” He chuckled quietly.

“How about a drink, sugar?” she said to the gaping barkeep. “Bloody Mary, extra bloody.” The blond man barked out another laugh, then quickly sipped from his glass when she glared at him. The woman (she must be an Indian to have skin that shade, thought the bartender vacantly) walked over to the bar and sat down next to the man. Snapping back to reality, the bartender grabbed another glass and gave it a quick, almost apologetic, wipe, then poured the drink.

“Sugar, would you mind turning that off? It's gettin' on my nerves,” asked the armored Indian beauty, gesturing towards the increasingly staticky TV.

“Uh...I...” the bartender hesitated, suddenly unsure of himself.

“Oh, let the man watch his game. It can't hurt anything. Besides, we'll be leaving soon enough. You really ought to learn some patience.” The woman downed her Bloody Mary in a single swift gulp.

“Oh, you're one to talk! Always showing up early everywhere you go, always got to have things your way. You think you're really something, don't you?”

“Yeah, I do. And I know I don't have to take that kind of lip from you!” The blond man knocked back the rest of his vodka and slammed the glass down on the bar, his mouth changing suddenly from an easy grin into a snarl just as furious as that of the woman. The bartender began edging down towards where he had the 16-gauge hidden.

Suddenly a voice spoke from the doorway. “Am I interrupting something? Honestly, can't you kids be together for two minutes without getting into a fight?” The bartender hadn't heard the jingle of the bell announcing this one. Must've been too focused on these two, he thought. Gotta keep my cool. Of course the crazies are out, I know what night it is. Just got to stay calm.

“Another drink, barkeep.”

“Ditto on that sugar.” The two were grinning at the latest arrival, their quarrel apparently completely forgotten.

“And I'll just have a glass of water if you don't mind,” said the short skinny black man standing in the doorway. “How much do I owe you for these two?” Judging by his experience of suits, which was admittedly lacking, the bartender suspected this man could afford to buy the entire bar without a second thought. He wore a gold watch on his skinny right wrist, and had a matching stud in his left ear.

“Six for his two vodkas. And eight for her Bloody Marys.” The television squelched again, and the bartender glanced over at it. He could barely make it out through the static, but it looked like his team was making a comeback. So was his night, it seemed, as the skinny black man opened his wallet to reveal a large wad of cash.

“There you are, and another ten for the trouble.” The bartender nodded his thanks, collected the money, and poured out the drinks.

“Good thing you showed up,” said the blond man. “I would have hated to skip out on the tab.” The bartender frowned and

“Oh, I wouldn't miss this night for the world,” the skinny black man replied. The Indian woman snorted, and the men both grinned, apparently at some inside joke.

“So what bus'ness ya in?” the barkeep asked the skinny black man in an attempt to stay with the conversation.

“Oh, I own various enterprises in the food industry. You know how it is, a fast food chain or two here, a couple of processing plants there, a few dozen warehouses on the side. It's all rather technical of course. I really just own stock in them; I have little to do with day-to-day operations.” The bartender, who did not know how it was, was rather sorry he'd asked the question.

Sipping his vodka, the blond man interrupted his friend, who seemed about to continue. “Lay off it there. I do believe you're boring the man already.”

“Hell, you're boring me,” said the Indian woman. The blond man nearly spit the drink he'd just taken back into his cup.

Rolling his eyes, the skinny black man replied, “Watch your mouth. I could take that as a personal insult. And speaking of the former, have you heard from our fourth? He's about to be late.” Just as he finished speaking, the bell jingled yet again, and yet again a swirl of cold air swept through the bar. This time though, the door didn't swing shut like it was supposed to. A man wearing an over-sized black hoodie with the hood pulled up over his face stepped in. His hands were buried deep in the pouch, which hung down low over the front of his faded blue-jeans. He stamped the snow off of his pale green sneakers (puke green, the bartender thought), and directed his gaze at each of the three other patrons in turn. They all smiled and nodded back respectfully, although the bartender guessed the man to be in his early twenties, and easily five or ten years younger than any of them.

The bartender could just make out the dark shape holding the door open behind this “fourth” when it spoke up in a youthful voice, “Wouldja get a move on? I'm f*****g freezin' here! We haven't got all night, ya know.” The man in the hoodie turned around slowly, fixing his gaze steadily upon the young man.

“Patience. It is still early.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. You know how it is though. How I get sometimes. Sorry.”

“I know.”

“'Kay. I'll...I'll just wait out here.” The bartender thought he heard the whinny of a horse over the wind before the door closed. He dismissed the notion. What would a horse be doing outside his bar? 'Specially in this weather. Just a trick of the wind, and of this night, he thought. Too many crazies out, and here's one more for me to deal with.

“Getcha somethin' to drink?” He asked the man in the hoodie.

“No. I won’t be here long.” The bartender grunted and turned back to the TV, only to discover that the screen been overwhelmed by static. “Salt and Pepper Wars,” his momma had called it when he was a kid.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, making his way around the bar to adjust the antenna. Suddenly the man in the hoodie was blocking his path.

“Don’t be so hasty. All in due time.”

“What the f**k are you talking about!? Get out of the way, you ain't even a paying customer.” Despite his annoyance, the bartender noticed out of the corner of his eye that the other three were gaping at them. He wondered if he'd made a mistake in calling out the smaller man. Son of a b***h might have a pistol in that hoodie pouch, the bartender thought suddenly. And I won't even get to see the end of the game. Hell of a thing to think about now.

When the man in the hoodie spoke, he sounded abashed. “Oh...I...it would seem I spoke out of turn. My apologies.” Then he gave a long, raspy sigh, a slow and painful sounding breath in and back out. “Once again, my apologies; it is my nature.”

Suddenly the bartender stumbled backwards against one of the stools, one hand clutching at his left breast, at his heart, and one grasping at his throat. He dropped to his knees in pain. “F****n' hell...” he whispered, then fell on his side and lay still, struggling to breathe.

“Possibly,” he heard the man in the hoodie say, “Although it's really none of my business. I could ask.” He had no idea who the man was addressing. It didn't seem to matter much. His chest spasmed again, and he tried to scream, but choked instead. It had looked like his team was going to come back, too. 

“Hell of a thing to be thinking about now,” the man in the black hoodie said. “Still, I suppose that's how it goes.”

Author's Note

Unique character voices is paramount to this story, and I'm not sure how successful I've been. I think I've made progress, but I need an outside eye to improve further. As always, any feedback is potentially useful feedback.

Reviews

[Hexan]

Nice! Really like how you told this story.

“I would have hated to skip out on the tab.” The bartender frowned and