Post by Crane/Kyoshi on Jan 15, 2017 14:06:39 GMT -5
O’Hooley’s Pub r was not a place for the feint hearted or the limp wristed. It was a rough and tumble kind of place where fights were common place and the tables were made of sturdy oak. The walls were covered with various road signs, decorated with the banners, jerseys, and memorabilia of Newcastle United FC, there was an old pool table in the back of the room that was quickly losing its shine from years of abuse and booze stained evenings.
The barkeep was an old cogger named Frank. He was a portly man with grayed hair and a pair of horn rimmed glasses. Frank was the type of man who let whatever happened happen as long as you didn’t damage his bar. Once that happened, all bets were off, and Frank was not about pulling out his father’s old hunting rifle to teach a lesson on who was going to do what in his bar. Most people knew the rules though and respected them. As long as they kept their fights to just fists and didn’t do any permanent damage, Frank let people deal with their problems the way they saw fit.
It was late Monday evening when a long-known trouble maker walked into the bar. Frank had been enjoying a quiet evening, only dealing with two drunken sods who were now nursing their beers in an old stall while two other bearded gentlemen played pool. But when he had the misfortune of seeing the shiny bald head and aviator sunglasses push open the door, Frank knew whatever was about to happen was not going to be good.
Nigel Crane was a man who had a reputation around that particular part of Newcastle. He had a short temper, a propensity for violence, and a sadistic joy in causing pain. He wasn’t someone anyone would want to deal with. Frank assessed that there was not a good bone in the hulking brute’s body. What made it worse was the shape that the man was in. Nigel Crane was something of a physical specimen. He stood at 6’4 and weighted 265 lbs of pure lean muscle. Frank had always figured that the man did four things in life. He worked out at the gym, he drank at the bar, he beat any poor soul that happened to be in his way, and then he went to sleep. He would then wake up and start the whole show over again. Frank figured that he would never love a woman the same way that Nigel Crane enjoyed drinking and fighting.
Nigel Crane sat down at the bar and glared at Frank. The portly Frank waddled over to the end of the bar.
Frank: What do you want Crane?
Nigel Crane stared at Frank straight faced and devoid of emotion.
Nigel Crane: Bottle of Peroni.
Frank nodded and waddled to the cooler where he grabbed the bottle at the bottom shelf. Frank never knew how Crane could love the trash Italian beer, but he never stopped to ask. He slid the bottle down the bar. Frank left his money on the table, chugged the beer dry, and slammed the bottle on the bar.
Nigel Crane: Another.
Frank opened a second bottle and slid it to him. He dropped the money on the bar and slammed another bottle.
Nigel Crane: I guess this is goodbye Frank.
Frank couldn’t help but feel elated.
Frank: What?
He tried to appear stone-faced.
Nigel Crane: Got a job across the pond. Doing what I love the most.
Frank: Can’t say I’m sad to see you go, but have fun giving someone else grief.
Crane didn’t respond, he snapped his fingers asking for another beer. Frank begrudgingly slid him another one after Crane left the money on the bar. Crane chugged the beer and threw it into a trash can behind the bar.
Nigel Crane: Figured as much.
Crane stood up from the bar and walked to the two men playing pool. Frank knew what was coming. He reached under the bar and put his hand on the hunting rifle.
Crane waited for the men to respond. The man sizing up his shot was the first to notice as Crane stood in between him and the ball.
Man: Do you mind?
Crane took this as an invitation. Stone faced, Crane slammed his elbow into the bearded man’s face, breaking his nose which sent blood pouring out of the man’s nose like a fawcet.
Man 2: HEY!
The second man rounded the corner but Crane was ready for him. Crane kicked him in the gut, picked him up, and powerbombed him through the pool table. The man hit the ground with a thud as billiard balls and wood went flying through the air. The two drunken men in the corner barely took notice.
Frank snapped the rifle to his shoulder.
Frank: Get the FUCK out of my bar or I swear as God as my witness I will drop you.
Crane turned to him, still showing no emotion. He walked to the bar, Frank backed away from Crane keeping the hunting rifle trained on his head. Crane pulled out his wallet and threw the thick leather billfold onto the bar.
Nigel Crane: Buy a new fucking pool table.
With that, Crane turned his head and walked out of the bar without another word. Frank never saw Nigel Crane again in O’Hooley’s Pub. He used the money given to buy a brand new pool table as well as a new television. On which people would be able to watch the scourge of Newcastle wrestle for Union Battleground.
The barkeep was an old cogger named Frank. He was a portly man with grayed hair and a pair of horn rimmed glasses. Frank was the type of man who let whatever happened happen as long as you didn’t damage his bar. Once that happened, all bets were off, and Frank was not about pulling out his father’s old hunting rifle to teach a lesson on who was going to do what in his bar. Most people knew the rules though and respected them. As long as they kept their fights to just fists and didn’t do any permanent damage, Frank let people deal with their problems the way they saw fit.
It was late Monday evening when a long-known trouble maker walked into the bar. Frank had been enjoying a quiet evening, only dealing with two drunken sods who were now nursing their beers in an old stall while two other bearded gentlemen played pool. But when he had the misfortune of seeing the shiny bald head and aviator sunglasses push open the door, Frank knew whatever was about to happen was not going to be good.
Nigel Crane was a man who had a reputation around that particular part of Newcastle. He had a short temper, a propensity for violence, and a sadistic joy in causing pain. He wasn’t someone anyone would want to deal with. Frank assessed that there was not a good bone in the hulking brute’s body. What made it worse was the shape that the man was in. Nigel Crane was something of a physical specimen. He stood at 6’4 and weighted 265 lbs of pure lean muscle. Frank had always figured that the man did four things in life. He worked out at the gym, he drank at the bar, he beat any poor soul that happened to be in his way, and then he went to sleep. He would then wake up and start the whole show over again. Frank figured that he would never love a woman the same way that Nigel Crane enjoyed drinking and fighting.
Nigel Crane sat down at the bar and glared at Frank. The portly Frank waddled over to the end of the bar.
Frank: What do you want Crane?
Nigel Crane stared at Frank straight faced and devoid of emotion.
Nigel Crane: Bottle of Peroni.
Frank nodded and waddled to the cooler where he grabbed the bottle at the bottom shelf. Frank never knew how Crane could love the trash Italian beer, but he never stopped to ask. He slid the bottle down the bar. Frank left his money on the table, chugged the beer dry, and slammed the bottle on the bar.
Nigel Crane: Another.
Frank opened a second bottle and slid it to him. He dropped the money on the bar and slammed another bottle.
Nigel Crane: I guess this is goodbye Frank.
Frank couldn’t help but feel elated.
Frank: What?
He tried to appear stone-faced.
Nigel Crane: Got a job across the pond. Doing what I love the most.
Frank: Can’t say I’m sad to see you go, but have fun giving someone else grief.
Crane didn’t respond, he snapped his fingers asking for another beer. Frank begrudgingly slid him another one after Crane left the money on the bar. Crane chugged the beer and threw it into a trash can behind the bar.
Nigel Crane: Figured as much.
Crane stood up from the bar and walked to the two men playing pool. Frank knew what was coming. He reached under the bar and put his hand on the hunting rifle.
Crane waited for the men to respond. The man sizing up his shot was the first to notice as Crane stood in between him and the ball.
Man: Do you mind?
Crane took this as an invitation. Stone faced, Crane slammed his elbow into the bearded man’s face, breaking his nose which sent blood pouring out of the man’s nose like a fawcet.
Man 2: HEY!
The second man rounded the corner but Crane was ready for him. Crane kicked him in the gut, picked him up, and powerbombed him through the pool table. The man hit the ground with a thud as billiard balls and wood went flying through the air. The two drunken men in the corner barely took notice.
Frank snapped the rifle to his shoulder.
Frank: Get the FUCK out of my bar or I swear as God as my witness I will drop you.
Crane turned to him, still showing no emotion. He walked to the bar, Frank backed away from Crane keeping the hunting rifle trained on his head. Crane pulled out his wallet and threw the thick leather billfold onto the bar.
Nigel Crane: Buy a new fucking pool table.
With that, Crane turned his head and walked out of the bar without another word. Frank never saw Nigel Crane again in O’Hooley’s Pub. He used the money given to buy a brand new pool table as well as a new television. On which people would be able to watch the scourge of Newcastle wrestle for Union Battleground.