Scratch that

Chapter 3

John Aberdeen was satisfied with his work for the day. He walked down the stairs, and slid when no one was watching. He hopped in his car and drove away. It was darker out now, but not yet night. He wasn't the least bit tired, but rather excited. During the day John was a busy guy, but the night was his time. With all his work completed he wanted to have a celebration. Now celebrations are special for most, but John made lots of excuses for them. A celebration for John wouldn't be a cake or presents, it would be two glasses of Ice-cold Scotch and an extra pack. John celebrated by himself a lot. He didn't consider himself an alcoholic however. He had his mishaps in his early days, and wasn't going to make the same mistakes again. He drove to his usual bar, "The Sachs" as it was called. He was lucky enough to find a parking space without having to paralell park. His junkmobile already, had enough bumps and scratches. He got out and walked to the tall brick building. The windows were tinted black and the door opened with a chime sound. The floors were made of wood, painted black. He sat at the last stool at the bar. The stools were made of squishy black cushions and they swiveled. Over time they became worn and had various scratched initials. It always smelled of firewood. Although John liked everything at the bar, there was an exception. His step-Father was the bartender on afternoons. This usually didn't bother him unless his mother was there. John's mother was married several times, and John was tired of it. Her most recent hunk was Dan Everett. He was slightly older than her but looked younger. His hair was scruffy black with some salt in the back. John hardly spoke to him, but he wasn't ever scared to start an argument. Before John sat down he looked around, once he made sure his mother wasn't in sight he began his celebration. "Give me two, scotch on ice please". Dan glanced and poured slowly into an iced glass. The chill felt nice on Johns scratchy palm. People who knew John, knew about his hand. There was a deep scar, in a perfect circle in the center of his palm. Although they knew he had this feature, nobody knew how he got it. John knew, but there wasn't ever going to be a time to tell. It's true, his friends tried to get him drink enough to say, but that wasn't going to happen. John could drink till tomorrow, and although his words would slur, he could keep his mouth shut. John drank slowly as he recalled some distant memories. It didn't matter how well you knew him, you didn't. All his life he was outgoing, but he would converse in such a way, that if you interviewed him he would know more about you. Despite this people generally considered him fun. Ah yes, but what would be coming out of those doors certainly won't be...