Page 2 of The Cocktail Bar
He spat again at the floor, an impediment which appeared to be carrying him from the football field as a teenager and on into adult life. River held his breath wondering what was coming next as Blake began to pace around the bar, stopping here and there to mimic somebody admiring the portraits in an art gallery. One glove was removed now and he dipped his index finger into the Schnapps’ sticky river, swirling it thoughtfully as if it were the blood of his prey. He lifted it to his lips, the alcohol re-painting an evil grin.
“Peachy… but then you’d know all about that… because you weren’t just satisfied with obliterating a skittles team—”
“But I couldn’t stop The Ring O’Bells being sold, that wasn’t my fault. If I hadn’t bought it, somebody else would—”
“Shut it,” Blake yelled. “I’m doing the talking,” he continued softly.
“Now where was I? Oh yes, peaches… ripe juicy peaches, none more so than Alice’s rump.” He paused to laugh. Lee’s echo joined in a few seconds later, the double entendre catching on.
River’s pulse quickened as he too connected the dots.
“Aderriereso pert and delicious, that not only did you steal an old man’s pastime, but you swiped my woman while you were at it too—”
“But that was years ago, man… a… a… one night stand,” River gulped. “It meant nothing… to either of us.”
“Nothing?” Blake cackled. “The love of my life meant nothing?”
He was a tornado of rage again. His face contorted with revenge as he reached for the chair behind him, slamming it into the wall. The legs buckled, debris scattered. Even Lee looked terrified this time.
The haunting silence returned, offering up a brief interlude until Blake decided he was ready to speak.
“Oh, incidentally,” he said, stooping once more to look deep into the pools of River’s eyes, “the fairground game I was referring to is called the Whack-a-Mole.”
River nodded. It seemed all words were probably best left to Blake now.
“It’s a game where this annoying little pillock,” he paused, and River sensed the direction of Blake’s thoughts before his attacker had chance to process them for himself, “hand me that bottle, Lee…” Blake pointed to a shelf that River had mistakenly thought was concealed to the customer’s side of the bar.
Holy shit: Not the Mexican elixir.
But Lee was a soldier, under sergeant’s command. His hands moved along the line of bottles, feeling for the most suitable weapon.
River tore his eyes away, praying silently that Lee would pick out any other bottle.
“As I was saying,” said Blake, “the annoying son of a bitch mole pokes its head up… uninvited,” he ran his hand along River’s jawline in a bizarre caress, “and so… what you do to this irritating excuse for a creature,” he beckoned to Lee who passed him a bottle in perfectly choreographed timing, “is you whack it back down into the hole again as hard as you can with a mallet.”
“Yeah, I re—”
But Blake’s fingertip welded River’s lips firmly together.
“Just a polite warning, buddy: you’re the mole, I’m the mallet; the steel mallet,” he raised the bottle high and smashed it, mercifully, against the counter as opposed to the skull, “and I will come back again and again with a vengeance to destroy this place, and its proprietor,” he paused and closed his eyes as if deep in thought, searching for his next words, “ex pop star or not, until I drive them to the brink of insanity and back to the city of angels where they belong.”
