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Description
One Man Band
A Short Story by Justin White

Life has a way of sending me clarity when I need it most. I'm back at the Deuce of Clubs for the first time in what feels like an eternity. The music is bad, the beer is terrible and the place reeks of smoke, failure and loss. It's good to be home.  The Deuce is busy tonight, the unrelenting winter eased up just enough to let a man get out of the house for a few hours. It's as much as relief for the rest of the patrons as it is for me. We all have our demons, and there's nothing worse than being locked up with them all damn winter. It'll make you do crazy things.

I'm so wrapped up in my own little universe that I don't even notice Franklin hobbling over until he drops into the seat across from me. He's dressed the same as always, starched white shirt, black bowtie and apron; he's the best dressed man in the room. It's his place though, so who's gonna say boo about it?

"How's the leg?"

"The one I got or the one I ain't?" He smiles and his pearly whites contrast starkly against his dark skin. "The one I got is alright, the other one you got to ask the Nazis about."  Franklin, like so many others, left a piece of himself on some battlefield back in Europe. "This ol' wooden piece of shit ain't worth whatever the army paid fo' it, that's for sure."

"I think this is the first time I've seen you leave the bar." I offer him my pack of Luckys but he waves them off. "You feeling alright?"

"Suzie and Caroline got it alright back there. Better question is, what the hell you doing back here? That Doyle fucker's got one of his assholes here every damn night looking for you." Franklin leans down, adjusting his wooden leg. I can hear a soft "Motherfucker" just under the music.

"I know, there's a car full of them out front." I take a long pull of the beer, it's even worse warm.

"The hell you doin' you crazy honkey? Tryin' to get an ol' man killed?"

"Nope, they don't have the nerve to come in here and start anything. This place of full of a lot of drunk, angry vets with guns; it'd be suicide. So they're going to sit out there in cold while I stay here, stay warm and listen to yet another of Millburgh's most horrendous bands. I swear to God Franklin I don't know where you find these guys."

"What I gots ta' pay, you cain't get the best. You wanna go play fo free you welcome to!"

"Maybe next time."

"Always next time wit you! You gonna do something about them assholes outside?" Franklin groans as he rises on his one good leg.

"Absolutely. Once they're tired, frozen and figuring I'm blind drunk, I'm going walk out there and shoot every one of them."

"Well don't go and get yoself killed, you a good tipper." With another brilliant grin Franklin ambles back across the bar in the odd rolling gait of the one legged man. I light up a fresh smoke and suck down a lung full of warmth. I don't know how man survived before these things.  I lean back in my booth and watch the band struggle through their set. It's painful to watch, but most of the room is ignoring them anyhow. I let my eyes wander around the Deuce as I get reacquainted with the old girl.

There's a sea of faces in the Deuce, most of them I've seen a hundred times before. The walls are covered in pictures, nearly every one of soldiers. Franklin came back from the war a little earlier than most, having the misfortune to be a bit closer to an exploding shell that the surgeon general advised. When others starting trickling home he welcomed one and all into the Deuce. Didn't matter who or what you were before the war, if you've seen the elephant you're welcome to drink at the Deuce. I think Franklin only let me stick around for the novelty of it, until I became just another face in the crowd. Eventually he even quit asking me to play the battered old upright piano, which even still sits lonely and untouched in the far corner. Well, he quit asking so often. I didn't want to call any more attention to myself than I need to, there's comfort in being just another face.
I once asked Franklin, years ago, why he called the place The Deuce of Clubs. "Lowest card in the deck Boss, lowest card in the deck." was all he said.  I'm ashamed to admit it took me a while to figure out what he meant. The place has always had an air of hard luck and hard living, from the warped bar, to the peeling wallpaper, to the uneven stage, to the sullen eyed patrons speaking low and trying to forget the toils of their day and the ghosts that haunt them. It's the greatest and most terrible place I've ever been, and I never want to leave. After a few hours of nursing my drinks Franklin rings last call. I check my pistol and don my hat and coat. I give my fellow patrons a moment to clear out, no sense in getting any of them shot. With a final nod to Franklin I stagger out into the night.

I slip and stumble on the icy sidewalk, barely catching myself on the wall of the Deuce. I've got to really sell this, and I'm doing my damndest. I slip and slide a few more feet before I let my legs go out from under me and crash into a laughing heap in the snow and ice.

"Need a hand there?"  I turn my head slowly, and look squinting and shaky at the four men who've appeared behind me. They could at least try to be subtle about this. They could have shot from me the car, but I'm willing to bet Danny would hand out hundreds like candy if they brought me to him alive.

"I sheem to have fallen over…."I lay it on thick, and their knowing grins tell me I have them sold.

"Well then laddie, let me give ya a hand there!"  He bends down reaching for my left arm. I let him help me start to rise before I me weight goes dead and I drag him back down, landing in a heap. He yells clutching at his guts as the red begins to pool in the snow. It takes his boys a second to realize what's happened, but it's already too late. One, two, three shots rip the stillness of the night. Mr. Helpful is still screaming, hands clutching at the knife buried to the hilt in his gut. He writhes and twitches, churning the snow into a nightmarish pink mess. I put one in his brain and give the night back to silence.

Description
One Man Band
A Short Story by Justin White

Life has a way of sending me clarity when I need it most. I'm back at the Deuce of Clubs for the first time in what feels like an eternity. The music is bad, the beer is terrible and the place reeks of smoke, failure and loss. It's good to be home.  The Deuce is busy tonight, the unrelenting winter eased up just enough to let a man get out of the house for a few hours. It's as much as relief for the rest of the patrons as it is for me. We all have our demons, and there's nothing worse than being locked up with them all damn winter. It'll make you do crazy things.

I'm so wrapped up in my own little universe that I don't even notice Franklin hobbling over until he drops into the seat across from me. He's dressed the same as always, starched white shirt, black bowtie and apron; he's the best dressed man in the room. It's his place though, so who's gonna say boo about it?

"How's the leg?"

"The one I got or the one I ain't?" He smiles and his pearly whites contrast starkly against his dark skin. "The one I got is alright, the other one you got to ask the Nazis about."  Franklin, like so many others, left a piece of himself on some battlefield back in Europe. "This ol' wooden piece of shit ain't worth whatever the army paid fo' it, that's for sure."

"I think this is the first time I've seen you leave the bar." I offer him my pack of Luckys but he waves them off. "You feeling alright?"

"Suzie and Caroline got it alright back there. Better question is, what the hell you doing back here? That Doyle fucker's got one of his assholes here every damn night looking for you." Franklin leans down, adjusting his wooden leg. I can hear a soft "Motherfucker" just under the music.

"I know, there's a car full of them out front." I take a long pull of the beer, it's even worse warm.

"The hell you doin' you crazy honkey? Tryin' to get an ol' man killed?"

"Nope, they don't have the nerve to come in here and start anything. This place of full of a lot of drunk, angry vets with guns; it'd be suicide. So they're going to sit out there in cold while I stay here, stay warm and listen to yet another of Millburgh's most horrendous bands. I swear to God Franklin I don't know where you find these guys."

"What I gots ta' pay, you cain't get the best. You wanna go play fo free you welcome to!"

"Maybe next time."

"Always next time wit you! You gonna do something about them assholes outside?" Franklin groans as he rises on his one good leg.

"Absolutely. Once they're tired, frozen and figuring I'm blind drunk, I'm going walk out there and shoot every one of them."

"Well don't go and get yoself killed, you a good tipper." With another brilliant grin Franklin ambles back across the bar in the odd rolling gait of the one legged man. I light up a fresh smoke and suck down a lung full of warmth. I don't know how man survived before these things.  I lean back in my booth and watch the band struggle through their set. It's painful to watch, but most of the room is ignoring them anyhow. I let my eyes wander around the Deuce as I get reacquainted with the old girl.

There's a sea of faces in the Deuce, most of them I've seen a hundred times before. The walls are covered in pictures, nearly every one of soldiers. Franklin came back from the war a little earlier than most, having the misfortune to be a bit closer to an exploding shell that the surgeon general advised. When others starting trickling home he welcomed one and all into the Deuce. Didn't matter who or what you were before the war, if you've seen the elephant you're welcome to drink at the Deuce. I think Franklin only let me stick around for the novelty of it, until I became just another face in the crowd. Eventually he even quit asking me to play the battered old upright piano, which even still sits lonely and untouched in the far corner. Well, he quit asking so often. I didn't want to call any more attention to myself than I need to, there's comfort in being just another face.
I once asked Franklin, years ago, why he called the place The Deuce of Clubs. "Lowest card in the deck Boss, lowest card in the deck." was all he said.  I'm ashamed to admit it took me a while to figure out what he meant. The place has always had an air of hard luck and hard living, from the warped bar, to the peeling wallpaper, to the uneven stage, to the sullen eyed patrons speaking low and trying to forget the toils of their day and the ghosts that haunt them. It's the greatest and most terrible place I've ever been, and I never want to leave. After a few hours of nursing my drinks Franklin rings last call. I check my pistol and don my hat and coat. I give my fellow patrons a moment to clear out, no sense in getting any of them shot. With a final nod to Franklin I stagger out into the night.

I slip and stumble on the icy sidewalk, barely catching myself on the wall of the Deuce. I've got to really sell this, and I'm doing my damndest. I slip and slide a few more feet before I let my legs go out from under me and crash into a laughing heap in the snow and ice.

"Need a hand there?"  I turn my head slowly, and look squinting and shaky at the four men who've appeared behind me. They could at least try to be subtle about this. They could have shot from me the car, but I'm willing to bet Danny would hand out hundreds like candy if they brought me to him alive.

"I sheem to have fallen over…."I lay it on thick, and their knowing grins tell me I have them sold.

"Well then laddie, let me give ya a hand there!"  He bends down reaching for my left arm. I let him help me start to rise before I me weight goes dead and I drag him back down, landing in a heap. He yells clutching at his guts as the red begins to pool in the snow. It takes his boys a second to realize what's happened, but it's already too late. One, two, three shots rip the stillness of the night. Mr. Helpful is still screaming, hands clutching at the knife buried to the hilt in his gut. He writhes and twitches, churning the snow into a nightmarish pink mess. I put one in his brain and give the night back to silence.