Nightingale

Chapter Four: "O'Connor Can KISS MY ARSE!"

"The supreme ruler h-he colls 'emself!," I watched Merick throw back another shot of vodka after already having seven. He usually didn't drink this much, but I could see his blood boiling tonight as he watched O'conner the Great give another propaganda speech on the plasma screen TV behind the bar. I began to look his way as he stood, stumbling a bit and giving a loud grunt. "Sure eee built da walls around little Eire here, cleared f-foockin' Englan' from Nightin-what-evar-da-fook-they-are..." he pointed his finger at the TV, taking the beer he had been sipping in the other hand. "But what en da fook 'as da bastar' doon fer meee?!" his last word was particularly slurred and elongated. His voice was rising again as he laughed awkwardly between phrases. I stood myself and placed my hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him down.

"Merick, I'd calm yourself lad. You don't want too...." He jolted his palm into my rib cage, pushing me back down into the stool. 

"FOOK YEW, I dun't need yer advice, Aaron!" I was raging, but I knew my time would be wasted if I snapped back at him. He was drunk, I was embarrassed and pissed off... pretty regular night if you ask me.

He turned back towards the TV, O'Connor standing in a black suit and simple tie as he talked. I couldn't hear what he was saying over the chatter in the bar and fun making of drunken Merick that stirred the occasional laugh. "I WORK NINETY HOURS AH FOOKIN' DAY IN A SHITTEH LITTLE FACTORY! I COME HOME SMELLIN' OF DUST AN' CHEMICALS SO THA' MY WIFE WON'T FUCK ME! WHAT DO I GET?! I DON'T GET ANYTHIN'!" The whole bar was looking now, his voice overshadowing all other sound in sheer drunken ferocity. I just sat there with a hand over the side of my face and forehead, leaning against the bar and hoping no one realized he was with me.

"O'CONNOR CAN KISS MY ARSE!" I didn't see him pitch the bottle, but I heard his arm cut through the air and his polyester wind breaker zip forward. A moment later I heard the sound of cracking glass, plastic and a low static sound and realized the bottle had struck and shattered the TV. Every one was silent, I looked over to Merick just in time to see a burly bouncer grab him, throw him to the bar floor and beginning pummeling him with his large fists. Another black shirted man joined in, Merick thrashing about on the floor as his nose was bloodied, eyes were blackened, ribs and stomach were bruised. They would rough him up just enough to make him remember and hurt the next few days, no broken bones or anything of the such. He thrashed and mumbled drunkenly in gibberish and low yells or grunts as they beat him senseless.

They were gone after less than a minute, dragging him by the arms through the pub and flinging him out the back door like a rag doll. The door slammed and the gust of wind that poured in caused the candle light to flicker more heavily for a moment. Silence befell the bar, every set of eyes poised and interested in a brutal, mocking way. Then the chatter slowly began again, and I took a long drink from the lableless beer that cost me half a sterling.

No more beer taps, those were a luxury. Now it was all old bottles of past-world stuff or local ales from amaeture brewers hoping to make a sterling or two. I wish I had the liscensing to to do that myself, would be quite a lovely change from making rifles for forteen hours a day, six days a week for an army I don't give a flying fuck about. The Emerald Army O'Connor called them.

I have no doubt that without them I would be shooting Nightingales myself and living around barbarians-- well I guess I essentially already do live with savages-- but at least I would have free reign over what I did, what I ate, where I lived and what Items I had access too, given I could find them while keeping myself alive...

It would be a lovely challenge I think.

How it is right now, I work until my fingers are bruised and bleeding, and in return I get a home with no power, enough shitty food to keep me alive and relatively fit, and the right to have my own rifle. After all that, they only give me twenty sterlings of money to spend on other things in a weeks time. Which is about enough to be able to repair something every rotation the sun makes around the galaxy, or buy exactly ten bullets for my rifle every week and still have enough for four beers every Sunday night with Merick.