Murder at The Pub

Time: An indeterminable number of minutes after midnight

The hatchet man, described as possessing dangerously female and radiantly blue eyes (small pupils) and a smile as wide as the planet, eclipsed all other beauty in the...et cetera, et cetera and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.


“I’m not sure if I'm dateable. Am I?”

Do we ever just say no?

So, here I am, beneath rock band, blue neon and bobbing heads, getting killed at the pub.

The room comes back to life. Gum-dotted bowling alley carpet. Wood walls painted with cartoonish stones. I had remembered the space being more pine-knotty, country chic. But when one is busy getting killed, anything sniffs of smuttily cheesy.

“Well, not quite dead,” said Kylie Royal, 36 years old. The Uptown native and her boyfriend were witness to the maiming. “But sputtering and burbling like some sort of beautiful war movie wound. To be determined.” Her boyfriend nods. She fingers her heavy framed specs. A nervous habit.

Not quite dead. Faired pretty well for an ex-hatchet man myself. And tonight, at the pub, it was my night to be mutilated. But not quite dead.