‘You wanna flick that switch fella,’ the barman asked, all menacing like.
The candle flickered and laboured under the draw of the night breeze as it touched every sinew of its aching heart.
‘Maybe,’ the man muttered, a voice all tortured and mangled that it was kind of hard to hear.
‘Well don’t. You know what you need to do. Walk out that open door and just go,’ the barman said, his threatening tone so easily delivered that you could have been forgiven in thinking the man he was speaking to had already left the bar. He hadn’t. The barman, known in these parts as Knucklehead Joe, returned to the bar and immediately his blood was up. The object of his anger just sat there, his hand fingering his glass delicately, suggestively.
‘You gonna leave man or am I going to have to make ya?’
The man looked up,
‘I guess you’re gonna have to make me.