#2 Eyes Front, No Talking ...

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They’ve waited. Waited for you. Now you’re here.

Great.

You watch the barman’s back as he scurries through a door and shuts it behind him. He wants no part of what’s about to happen.


Neither do you, really.


You realise the only drunk in the room is an old man. No-one else has drunk a drop. No half-drained beers going warm or lonely.


Of the crowd, only about half-a-dozen men held bottles. And those bottles are strangled upside-down by the neck by meaty fists, bases smashed into furious angry glass teeth, lusting for your blood.


If this had been a scene from a Western, someone, would step up and make a speech now.


“Turn back now, boy,” or, “You’re a long way from home, ain’t you?”


If it were a Western, you’d riposte pithily, then mop the floor with their asses.


But it isn’t.


All it is, is one old bloke and 30-odd built angry locals, and six razor-sharp bottlenecks itching for your arteries.


Nothing like a Western.


And yeah, maybe you are a tough nut, toned and able to handle things with your hands.


But you’ve never been the guy who had eyes bigger than his stomach.


The only variable here is how badly you are going to lose.