#1 Eyes Front, No Talking ...

This blog deserves a better class of post. Photos of the week? C'mon. No wonder I haven't been back for weeks. I think you'll all enjoy this a lot more.)

B--

***

They won't like you.

They never do.

But you need them.

Yep. They'll have to do.

You ain't ever been in so deep before. How you gonna get outta this one then, Mister?

Same as always, one way or the other. Run, walk, crawl.

You hope.

Go on, you think. Shake that inner dialogue out of your head.


It will do you no good, an unhelpful tennis match of Doubt versus Hope, Desperation two-sets-and-a-break up on Despair.
Get it out of your head.


You aren't much on despair.

You push through the double door and cross the threshold from hot, sweaty, squinty outside into dark, cooler (marginally) inside.


Mind on the job, you focus on the task before you. Your irises relax, expand, suck hard and inhale every bit of scarce light that bounces round the room, a barroom, you can see now, as you drag the details out from under the pool table, barstools, dead animal heads hanging on the walls … details kicking and screaming, fingernails dug in and dragging on the floor.

Yep, it's a bar, alright, and not a very nice one. And that's just the decor.


The clientele … well, they look like they would, and probably do, snap toddlers.

But you expected that.

This, of all things, wasn't designed to be easy.

So, you push your left foot ahead of your right foot, and force yourself not to look back outside.

Outside … where your road ends, hope dies and a final -- and impossible -- task has been set for you, failure guaranteed … and preferred.

Same unwritten law applies now as the one men follow at the urinal wall of a public bathroom.

Eyes front, no talking.

You look at them looking at you, feel, like, no love at all, only hatred.


Then you noticed the broken bottle necks in the hands of a half-dozen of them.

Six pairs of broad, angry hands intent on harm.

You aren't about to break the silence.

(READ the next chapter.)