Grace

“What’ll it be, friend?”

”Three fingers of Fiddich—straight.”

”Sure thing, stranger. Say, you ain’t from around here are you?” he said proudly pouring after reaching from the plenitude of liters and pints.

”No,” he replied rapidly.

”You know, pal, I got a couple of girls just down the road who got hips, slips and fingertips to make you yearn and burn”

”Not interested.”

”Okay, well, how about some laughers, poppers, squinters, squatters, bennies, zingers, frackers, jiggers—“

“Listen, barkeep, I simply want to sit here quietly and sip these spirits, if you don’t mind,” he moaned slowly as the gray in his hair shimmered in the mirror and his dove pendant gleamed behind the bartender. Ostensibly Oxforded and buttoned-up benign, he feigned forbearance and benevolence.

“Sure thing…,” he said catching the bird of prey on his chest, “I just know what it’s like. I used to be a man of the cloth once upon a lifetime ago. One can never truly become what the good book wants us to be, you know? Shit, I don’t think I ever met a person who didn’t fall short of the grace of—well, I’m preaching to the choir now, I reckon.”

 

 

“Please, please don’t kill us. We can double what he’s paying you, I’ll triple it. C’mon, just look at my kids, will ya?! They’re crying for god’s sake. Hurt us all you want, but leave our kids alone. They had nothing to do with this. Look at ‘em, please! They’re little angels—they never hurt anybody. Have a heart, we beg you. Just let them go. No! No! No!”

 

 

With a consuming and cogent cock of the wrist, he cradled the empty glass and catalyzed the eyes of the cute cunt at the end of the bar to sidewind her beautiful curves towards him sultry then sanguine.

 

”Buy me a drink, Preacher?

“Sure thing…” he said fishing for her name.

 

”Grace.”

∞