❛ MR BABE.

     HE DOES look old.

     MORE THAN that: he looks old and deranged and streaky, and once his hand lowers and Dara is treated to an eye-full of his Pollock-splatter face, he recoils, wincing as if viewing him is somehow physically painful. And unlike this guy, Dara is not batshit crazy, and somewhere in the vestigial remnants of his ‘ feelings ’ he gets a vague stirring of sympathy. Like he deserved to have his day ruined and maybe his tires slashed, but not to cry.❝Just … unlock the door,❞he asks gruffly, suddenly intensely uncomfortable with the indescribably strange energy radiating off of him like a nuclear disaster, and he’s about to ( maybe ) entertain the idea of offering a ( fake ) apology when he’s faced with a dull, rusty cocktail knife, pointed squarely between his eyes. 

     ❝YOU’RE GOING to stab me over a five dollar bill,❞ he repeats slowly, taking said nearly-worthless ( the economy ! in shambles ! ) piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and holding it aloft like some pathetic prize. He isn’t scared. It’s a strange, sour cocktail of bewilderment, amusement and outright fury that this is happening to him at all.❝Is that right ? What are you gonna do, hold me down and put lipstick on me ?❞he taunts, sneering. 

     ❝FUCK OFF. You try that shit and all bets are off. You think you’re so tough,❞ he scoffs,❝ and you’ve got a knife that couldn’t even cut a fucking lemon. Don’t worry about the door, by the way. I’m actually an engineer,❞ he explains to him patiently, and he picks up the napkin holder on the table and reels his arm back as if he intends to throw it through the window. 

Dennis is just a little more perceptive than Mac or Charlie, so it doesn’t take much out of him to realize he must look awfully pathetic right now. In fact if he were on the outside looking in he’d think the same. Pressing his lips into a flat line he takes a step closer, but maintains a healthy distance between them. “Don’t flatter yourself. No amount of lipstick could fix that rotten mug of yours. You look inbred.” Truth be told the guy wasn’t that ugly. If Dennis had to rate him on a scale of one-to-ten he’d let him get off with a hefty 6.5; by Dennis Reynolds terms it was a pretty impressive score. Dennis hardly gave out tens unless it concerned himself or Brad Pitt as Tyler Durden in Fight Club.

He didn’t like it when other men pointed out that he wore makeup. Well, he supposed it was unavoidable given the current state of his long, pale mien, but it always felt degrading. Women seemed to admire it; it allowed them to connect with him on a more intimate level. Something most guys won’t realize in their lifetime is the simple fact that chicks dig a man who’s in-touch with his feminine side. 

     DARA WINCES through the initial burn of his first swig, coughing into his elbow and grimacing as he shudders. This is somehow worse than expected – it only takes him a moment to glance at the label ( “ X-TRA SOOPER SEKRIT POTION “ ) to reconsider drinking any more of it, slamming it onto the sticky tabletop. 

     THIS GUY’S clearly some sort of psychopath. The screaming, the stomping, the swollen-faced hysterics that the mechanic meets with little more than an impassive, disinterested stare and a scoff. He has enough experience with people to be – mostly – unphased, despite how much he’d prefer not to be called a pigman. If he was younger, maybe he’d have taken more offense, but he’s been called far worse by now. ❝Sunovabitch,❞he mutters through a tired hiss, ducking down briefly to snatch the crumpled bill off the floor ( turns out, he threw $5 ) and stuff it into the pocket of his ratty denim jacket. He heads for the door, grumbling to himself that he would have kicked your ass if I wasn’t so tired, and he pauses, momentarily, when the handle won’t budge. He shakes it; throttles it, practically, rattling the door so hard the wood makes an audible sound of splintering as he attempts to all but yank it off the hinges. Panic crests up in him, for a moment, at the thought of being trapped in here, but he’d sooner throw a chair through the window than stay. 

     ❝DOOR’S LOCKED, ❞Dara grunts, furrowing his brow as the audible sound of some kind of mechanism rattles on the other side. Addressing the pathetic barkeep stewing in his orgy of self-pity, he demands,❝open it, or I’ll just break the fucking window and open it myself. ❞ 

Click. He shuts the compact and returns it to his back pocket. He’s feeling a bit better; now if only he could get to the bathroom without making direct eye contact with the bastard, cause he’s rocking some serious mascara tears. Sliding out from behind the counter Dennis walks with a hand shielding the right side of his face — the very side facing that man— to avoid further humiliation. It’s only when he says something about breaking a window that Dennis bothers paying attention. Ice blue eyes meet brown; Dennis’s entire countenance is dilapidated mess as jet-fuel streaks of mascara run down either of his cheeks. His heavy-duty foundation’s been rubbed off at the tip of his nose and around his lips. Great more liars; and they said this shit was sex-proof!

He’s been crying. All because the guy said he looked old.

“I see...” He whispers. There’s a sudden shift in his expression. The stale air in the bar grows heavier, making it difficult to breath. “For once, it seems like Charlie was onto something with these innovations.” Dennis backtracks and returns to the bar; the cocktail knife was just an arm’s length away. His endurance has gotten worse with age but he’s still quite agile — like a cat —. All it takes is a blink, and Dennis has his weapon-of-choice pointed at the dude, pure murder-lust in his eyes. “Give me my money. Didn’t your mommy teach you to pay for things that don’t belong to you? Or, I guess not.” He shrugs. “You low-life shmuck.” 

     DARA VERY pointedly stares directly to the left of his head at the “ CUSTOMERS MOST SHOW ID TO PROVE AGE ” sign in tandem with his comment. But he chooses to make no remarks; he’s tired, he doesn’t want to get into this, and he mumbles under his breath, grunting slightly when he feels some miscellaneous muscle twist itself into a knot as the uncomfortable bar stool rearranges all the bones in his spine. But he just can’t take a hint, can he ? He could have shut up and given him his drink and fucked off back to catfishing girls. 

     THAT’S IT. Maybe it’s the bitter weather in this shitty state or his fourth failed attempt at AA or maybe it’s the way this little prick’s nagging, shrill whine feels like a drill directly into his ear ( it reminds him so much of someone – he wonders how that vile little politician is doing these days ), but Dara’s lip curls back in mounting irritation. He’s to his feet slowly, the creak of the floorboards under his boots. ❝ Yeah ? ❞ he sneers, ❝ ’cause your botox makes you look like you’ve got one foot in the grave and the other one in a retirement home. ❞  

     HE’S FASTER than you’d expect. His arm goes under the bar, snatching the first bottle he can grab ( not everclear, but some shitty brand of low quality vodka that goes down like mouthwash ), yanking it just out of the barkeep’s reach as he expertly twists off the cap with one hand and flings a crumpled bill at his head. ❝ You have shit customer service, ❞ Dara snaps, bottle to his lips as he tips his head back. 

Dennis looks on flabbergasted. He doesn’t even get to dodge the bill, so it hits him square in the left eye (And if he tried, his shitty reflexes would never permit it. He wasn’t built for such heavy-duty activity.) “Wha-” Rage begins to build inside of him, cradling his stomach then surreptitiously rising in his throat. “WHAT THE HELL. YOU CAN’T JUST. WHY, OH-” Dennis’s ghostly complexion turns the color of a tomato, all the blood in his body rushing into his face; which is is quite unbecoming, as it made him look assuredly bloated. “YOU CAN’T JUST DO THAT! OOOOH YOU CRETIN! YOU ABSOLUUUUUTE PIG. DISGUSTING!” He screams, a large vein in his neck bulging. “DISGUSTING PIG MAN! THIS IS A BUSINESS! A FINE, FINE, BUSINESS ESTABLISHMENT! YOU CAN’T TREAT ME LIKE THIS!”

He has half the mind to call security on this monster, saved only by the fact that security was Mac, and the guy before him looked like he had the capacity to shred some major ass. Didn’t matter how much glamour muscle Mac was packing these days, it made no difference in a fight where real brawn was concerned. 

     HE CRINGES as the phone beams a nuclear blast of 100% brightness directly into his eyeballs. 

     IT TAKES a moment to adjust, recoiling as he grimaces and shoves his hand back. He doesn’t have much to say – not that Dara could get much of a word in, anyways, because every time he so much as parts his lips, the bartender is already lunging towards another furious self-interjection as if tripping over his words in his haste to get them out. The comment about him looking washed up makes him startle, self-consciously carding a hand through his greasy, dark hair, leaving an unintentional streak of black by his temple ( he should wash his hands after work ). 

     SO HE sits, sullen, eyes half-lidded and his mouth twisted into a curt, sour scowl. He isn’t sure what about his hunched posture and irate expression indicate he is, in any capacity, in the mood for a chat. ❝Okay.❞And he pauses, uncertain if it’s his turn to talk.❝I just asked if you had everclear. You either do, or you don’t. ❞Dara’s flicker from the ghoul in the phone screen to the withered husk of a man behind the bar countertop. He isn’t a woman, not even hypothetically, so the question remains unanswered.❝ Well. Are you twenty six ?❞he asks, staring at his hairline. 

Dennis lets out a gasp so exaggerated it teeters on the edge of turning into a shriek. His mouth hangs open in an ‘o’, as his brain desperately attempts to make work of the guy’s comment. Did he mean that in offense? No, no. Of course not. Clearly he found him very attractive. The very picture of youth in all it’s glory. ‘That’s why he asked if you’re 26, Dennis. Because you are. Mentally. Physically. And whatever your birth certificate implies is nothing but a crock of shit! To hell with it all! It’s just a useless piece of paper! You’re perfect; Michelangelo would cry at your feet! Just look at those stunning features, that perfectly placed nose, those sly pink lips- ’

He’s forced back to reality because the shithead’s talking to him again (how dare he disrupt him during this vital thought process!) “Oh don’t you know better than to ask someone their age?” ‘Insensitive asshole’, he’ll add under his breath. Dennis tightens his jaw, purses his lips, and gives the man a once-over. The black stain by the side of his head inspires disgust in Dennis, as if he were sporting an extra limb. Slob. “Oh god, what’s with all the suicidal customers lately? Well I hope you don’t mind taking it outside, because Paddy’s really can’t afford the reputation of a suicide hotspot in this economy. Buuuuut there’s a park just down the block if you’re looking for the perfect place to off yourself.” He winks and eyes the empty tip jar. “You’re welcome by the way.”