MaiusImperium
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jan 16, 2005
- Posts
- 667
Isaiah had not always been a barkeep or entrepreneur. In fact he had started out like the rest, scratching a living in mud holes and sifting gold through pans and working his hands raw until they bled. Of course everyone just thought of him as Fletch the barkeep, and looking at him it was difficult to imagine him doing anything other than polishing the bar, cleaning out glasses and listening attentively to the woes of the patrons. He had a warm, round face; though he had never given in to excess and allow himself to expand sideways, bright keen eyes and a generally understated appearance. His dark hair had long since receded over the horizon and now it was more or less shaved off completely, his lower face seemed to be perpetually pitted in a 12 o’clock shadow.
At the moment he was listening attentively, though it was not to the woes of one his regulars, which he eminently preferred. Fletch’s eyes were fixed intensely to the glass tankard in his hands, and he polished it furiously as the old man across the bar slid a case along it and opened it in front of him.
“I’m telling you, Mr Fletcher, this is one-hundred percent gen-you-ine scotch single malt whiskey.” The old man’s tone was shaky, desperate, it always was.
“Let me get this straight Crabby, you expect me to believe that you got this from your brother, who got it off his second cousin, who found it in a crate that had fallen off a boat at the docks bound for Britain, despite the fact we’re on the wrong side of the country?. Howin’ the hell did the bottles survive the fall Crabby?” Crabby’s stories got more outlandish and incredulous each week. Old Crabby McClaren was something of a regular, though he rarely bought a drink or a girl, he came in every week to try and pawn off his dodgy merchandise, and every week Fletch’s answer was the same.
“Take a look at it Isaiah!” Crabby had addressed him by his given name; the old man was getting desperate, “That’s authentic liquor, straight from the woad-covered highlands!” Fletch sighed resignedly and placed the chunky glass tankard above the bar with the rest, and finally his attention was fixed on Crabby.
“Alright Crabby, let me have a look-see,” Fletch picked out a bottle of the golden brown liquid from the battered leather case and held it up to the light. The liquid seemed clean at least; the first and only time he’d bought a crate of liquor from Crabby it had been allegedly been gen-u-ine French cognac, it had in fact been watered down maple syrup. Fletch’s eyes narrows as he found some writing stamped on the base of the bottle.
“Crabby…these bottles are stamped ‘Cormick’s Turpentine: Ideal for stripping lead paint’. I think it’s time for you to be movin’ on, before I fetch ol’ Betsy.” Crabby’s eyes widened and his face dropped forlornly, he had become intimately acquainted with Betsy over the months he had been plying his trade in the Aurora. The first time he had been told he was going to meet Betsy he had been surprised to find it was in fact Fletch’s double-barrelled shotgun and not a heavy-chested girl after all.
“Alright I’m leavin, I’m leavin,” Crabby raised his hands in an effort to placate the barkeep and backed from the bar, his case in hand. He did not have the courage ask for the bottle of whiskey back that was held like a club in Fletch’s fist. “Jus you wait until next week Fletch, I’ll have somethin you aint gonna refuse, no mistake.” Fletch growled and moved as if to reach under the bar for his gun and the rogue merchant beat a hasty retreat from the bar and out into the cold rain.
Then it happened, a loud shot rang out in the bar, momentarily piercing the usual raucousness of the crowd and Tap's piano. Within a heartbeat Fletch had his rifle trained on the perpetrator, and with little more than a glance towards five of the ‘help’ there were soon six pieces trained on the man. He was about to contemplate giving the gambler the contents of both barrels when he heard Lou pipe up. Immediately his body relaxed and he took his finger off the triggers, though he kept the gun trained on him, as did the rest. Lou had diffused the situation as she usually did, he wondered how she did it; Fletch did not possess her silver tongue, but it was far preferable to his solution to the problem, which would have been to blackjack the man and throw him out.
“Look after the bar, Jake.” Fletch absent-mindedly handed the dirty rag over to Jake, a portly man with a long moustache. He waited until the man was in Lou’s office, and followed after them, he stopped at the door and loomed, knowing Lou would see his silhouette in the frosted glass. He turned to stand guard, Lou would handle things, but he always wanted to be there, in the background, to keep an eye on her.
At the moment he was listening attentively, though it was not to the woes of one his regulars, which he eminently preferred. Fletch’s eyes were fixed intensely to the glass tankard in his hands, and he polished it furiously as the old man across the bar slid a case along it and opened it in front of him.
“I’m telling you, Mr Fletcher, this is one-hundred percent gen-you-ine scotch single malt whiskey.” The old man’s tone was shaky, desperate, it always was.
“Let me get this straight Crabby, you expect me to believe that you got this from your brother, who got it off his second cousin, who found it in a crate that had fallen off a boat at the docks bound for Britain, despite the fact we’re on the wrong side of the country?. Howin’ the hell did the bottles survive the fall Crabby?” Crabby’s stories got more outlandish and incredulous each week. Old Crabby McClaren was something of a regular, though he rarely bought a drink or a girl, he came in every week to try and pawn off his dodgy merchandise, and every week Fletch’s answer was the same.
“Take a look at it Isaiah!” Crabby had addressed him by his given name; the old man was getting desperate, “That’s authentic liquor, straight from the woad-covered highlands!” Fletch sighed resignedly and placed the chunky glass tankard above the bar with the rest, and finally his attention was fixed on Crabby.
“Alright Crabby, let me have a look-see,” Fletch picked out a bottle of the golden brown liquid from the battered leather case and held it up to the light. The liquid seemed clean at least; the first and only time he’d bought a crate of liquor from Crabby it had been allegedly been gen-u-ine French cognac, it had in fact been watered down maple syrup. Fletch’s eyes narrows as he found some writing stamped on the base of the bottle.
“Crabby…these bottles are stamped ‘Cormick’s Turpentine: Ideal for stripping lead paint’. I think it’s time for you to be movin’ on, before I fetch ol’ Betsy.” Crabby’s eyes widened and his face dropped forlornly, he had become intimately acquainted with Betsy over the months he had been plying his trade in the Aurora. The first time he had been told he was going to meet Betsy he had been surprised to find it was in fact Fletch’s double-barrelled shotgun and not a heavy-chested girl after all.
“Alright I’m leavin, I’m leavin,” Crabby raised his hands in an effort to placate the barkeep and backed from the bar, his case in hand. He did not have the courage ask for the bottle of whiskey back that was held like a club in Fletch’s fist. “Jus you wait until next week Fletch, I’ll have somethin you aint gonna refuse, no mistake.” Fletch growled and moved as if to reach under the bar for his gun and the rogue merchant beat a hasty retreat from the bar and out into the cold rain.
Then it happened, a loud shot rang out in the bar, momentarily piercing the usual raucousness of the crowd and Tap's piano. Within a heartbeat Fletch had his rifle trained on the perpetrator, and with little more than a glance towards five of the ‘help’ there were soon six pieces trained on the man. He was about to contemplate giving the gambler the contents of both barrels when he heard Lou pipe up. Immediately his body relaxed and he took his finger off the triggers, though he kept the gun trained on him, as did the rest. Lou had diffused the situation as she usually did, he wondered how she did it; Fletch did not possess her silver tongue, but it was far preferable to his solution to the problem, which would have been to blackjack the man and throw him out.
“Look after the bar, Jake.” Fletch absent-mindedly handed the dirty rag over to Jake, a portly man with a long moustache. He waited until the man was in Lou’s office, and followed after them, he stopped at the door and loomed, knowing Lou would see his silhouette in the frosted glass. He turned to stand guard, Lou would handle things, but he always wanted to be there, in the background, to keep an eye on her.
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