Page 12 of Shades of Silver City

Squinting, I notice a man in the fight whose soul-shade is grey.

He didn’t come in here like that; I would’ve noticed.

“Oh, wait till I tell Jeremiah about this one, ya—”

I block out Fredrik and all other surrounding noise, completely absorbed in watching the two men fighting on the other side of the crowd.

“Move!” I shout as I tuck the bat under my arm.

I place my hands on the bar. With some effort, I swing my feet off the sticky, grimy floor and leap over the counter, clearing it smoothly. I never thought I would be in such good shape from bartending. It's not a matter of choice, for sure.

The regulars, who are still lucid and not yet fully intoxicated, give me a wide berth as I push my way toward the jukebox. They’re as used to this as I am.

Sweat forms on my palms, and my knees start to wobble.

As I get closer, I realize that both of the patrons involved in the disagreement have grey soul-shades. A moment ago, only one guy did.

What the hell?

I hadn’t seen a grey soul-shade in thirteen years. And now, three in one night?

The main aggressor, a beefy, red-faced man, grabs the other by the neck. “I oughta kill you for that, you son of a—”

Crack.

I bring the bat down on a high-top table beside them. It startles the larger man, and he releases the other, stumbling backward as he squints at me with confusion.

“Get the hell out of here.” I shake the bat at them. “Both of you. Now! Or the next hit will land on your balls.”

It’s a bluff. I’ve never actually hit a patron with a bat before. But then again, I’ve never needed to. Threats normally do the trick.

A bead of sweat slides down my cheek as my eyes roam the muted cloud of grey surrounding the two drunkards.

My hands shake so hard I almost drop the bat, but I maintain a neutral expression on my face.

“I said get the fuck out!”

Instantly they stop and straighten. They both spit curses at me, then scurry through the small crowd and out the open front door.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. My lungs ache, on the verge of bursting. Normally, it only takes a few steady breaths to regain my composure, but I can’t calm myself tonight.

Why did those men have grey soul-shades?

They’re still alive.

The same song plays on repeat from the jukebox. The lead singer goes on and on about drinking beer and partying all night long. I’ve heard the lyrics enough times that I could recite them in my sleep.

I snap.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

I bring the bat down on the jukebox until my arms are weak and tingly from the impact. I’m out of breath and sweating. And the worst part of all?

The damn thing keeps on playing.

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