NO STRINGS
Part One of Three
~~~~~
NO STRINGS
PROLOGUE
Currently, I live with a cat named Tom, otherwise alone, in an apartment on the outskirts of a major metropolitan city. And Tom is a she, which I found out when I took her to the vet. No, I didn't name her that. Her previous owners, who abandoned her, did. My landlord told me the previous tenants skipped and left the cat, and that a neighbor was feeding it, but that he would call animal control. I told him not to, that I would take it in. I didn't want to see the cat meet that kind of fate. I have a real soft spot for critters, and beautiful women - yeah, I'm a real saint.
I currently live in an apartment because my home is occupied by some guy and my ex-wife, "The Bitch" (or "TB" for short - you know, like the disease)...Maybe I'm a tad bitter.
We were married ten years, the first two, blissfully, thereafter, not so much, and in the end, she made my life a living hell. Of course none of this was my fault - I said with a straight face. She divorced me a year ago with my blessing, and most of my money. The latter part was without my blessing, but her lawyer insisted. Lawyers, huh?
Fortunately, I don't have to pay alimony or child support - no alimony because she shacked up with her latest fling before filing the divorce. The private eye my lawyer hired got some exceptionally revealing pictures of their mating rituals. So, the infidelity noose hung on her neck, not mine. And for the record, I was faithful; though anybody that knows me now would find that hard to believe.
I didn't have to pay child support because, though she was pregnant at the time, when my lawyer challenged her claim that it was mine, she declined to submit to DNA testing. Wonder why? I could have probably gotten a better settlement if I had been willing to go through a prolonged, contested divorce, but I just wanted to be done with it. Besides, in the end, I was not the best husband, and aside from the irreconcilable differences, I was verbally abusive, and not the most supportive of my spouse; so in the end, it was best not fight it out.
Since my divorce, I've pretty much turned into a man-whore, bedding every available woman in the tri-state area. Of course, like everything else, that's TB's fault.
INTRODUCTION
I'm Matthew, Matt, 36, six foot-nothing, and 195 pounds. I have slightly wavy, dark-blond hair, which I wear moderately short - just off the collar. I have a neatly groomed mustache and beard, nondescript blue eyes, and average facial features. If pressed, I would describe myself as averagely handsome. Physically, I'm in pretty good shape, kind of broad-chested, pretty muscular, but not quite ripped. I jog and work out. I try to take care of myself, eat right, and on occasion, I have a beer. Lately though, I've been finding far too many 'occasions' for said beer. And yes, I'm going to blame that on TB, also.
I'm a structural engineer by trade, and that pays well, but since TB got the lion's share of my savings and all of my house, I'm trying to recover from my current financial circumstances.
Not a lot else to tell, except I'm one hell of a stud in bed. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration.
STORY
I. MUGS AND JUGS
Ever get the feeling you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The hair stands up on the back of your neck and your stomach gets jittery. The smart thing to do at that point, is quickly vacate your current location or situation. That's the smart thing to do. The other thing to do is to listen to your intellect; tell yourself it's your imagination, that you're overreacting - that's the dumb thing.
There's a reason the hair stands up on the back of your neck and your stomach gets jittery - thousands of years of evolution. Our ancestors depended on that instinct to stay alive. As we've evolved, we've become less dependent on instinct and more dependent on intellect to govern our responses to danger; which is why we evolved into intelligent beings with a far superior intellect - one that makes us more likely than our ancestors to be killed because of stupidity.
So, one night after work, I stopped at a bar to get a beer. I'd never been to this bar, and my instinct told me it was not the best place to stop. But they advertised pool tables, so I also thought I could rustle up a game - I'm pretty good. Yeah, I ignored my instinct and went in.
When I entered the bar, I surveyed the two pool tables at the back, and judging by the looks of the Neanderthals playing, I decided I should probably stick to the beer - intellect to the rescue. My instinct told me to skip the beer, too, and just leave, but with my considerable capacity for rational thought, I reasoned it was only one beer and there couldn't be any harm in that. Intellect won out again.
Intellect: 2; Instinct: 0; Odds of nothing bad happening: 0.
I bellied up to the bar and was greeted by a distinguished-looking, articulate, immaculately-dressed bartender...okay, he was uglier than my ex-wife; talked like he had a wad of half-chewed meat in his mouth; and was wearing a stained shirt with one tail tucked in.
(My ex-wife isn't ugly, but I find it difficult not to be disparaging when I refer to her; and I try to refer to her in a disparaging manner at every opportunity.)
"Whaddayawant?" he politely inquired.
"Beer," was my snappy response.
He didn't ask what kind, just drew something from one of the taps into a pristine, frosty mug - okay, the chipped glass, which had said 'Miller' at one time, now with most of the emblem worn off, was not a mug, not frosty, and most certainly not pristine.
He politely placed a coaster in front of me and centered the glass on it ever so neatly - or he pushed it in my general direction, to save taking a whole step my way. I'll let you guess which.
He tapped the bar, "Six bucks."
I almost choked on my first swallow of the flat goat piss he'd just served me. I thought he had a hell of a nerve charging six dollars for the swill. I weighed the option of not shelling out the six bucks, and just getting up and leaving - of course with the prospect of dealing with a surly cretin in a stained, half-tucked shirt, I decided the hassle wasn't worth it. I peeled a twenty from my fat wad of cash, handed it to him and told him to keep the change. I normally wouldn't flash my money around like that, but seeing as how this was such a high-class establishment, I wanted to impress the staff and the other patrons. Okay, I dug six dollars in rumpled bills out of my pocket and tossed them on the counter.
I was about half-way through my flat beer when I heard a ruckus coming from the nearest pool table. Hair stood up on the back of my neck, and my stomach got that queasy feeling; of course the stomach thing could have been from the beer. Either way, I should have left. I didn't. Instead, I casually looked over my shoulder at two of the Neanderthals who were having a minor disagreement.
Neanderthal A was shouting, "You fucking cheated, motherfucker!"
Neanderthal B responded, "You're full of shit, asshole. I didn't move the fucking cue ball!"
At this point, instinct won out and I made haste to exit this fine establishment and sacrifice what was left of my delicious brew. As I stood, Neanderthal A pushed Neanderthal B, who collided with me.
He whipped around and redirected his considerable ire at me, "Watch it, dickhead."
Every fiber in my being screamed, "Say you're sorry and leave," but the very small portion of my brain that is dedicated to rational thought was overruled by the larger portion of my brain that is dedicated to making smart-ass remarks at every opportunity; so instead, my mouth received a message to do just that - which it did.
"I'm sorry, sir. You have me confused with your partner there. His head is significantly more penis-shaped than mine."
"What?"
"If I have to explain each insult, this will take a lot longer."
"Motherfucker!" was his snappy comeback. He promptly lifted his pool cue up to threaten me, "How about I crack you're fuckin' skull open, wise ass?!"
I nonchalantly replied, "In response to your query, my rejoinder would be in the negative."
As he chewed on that, I rapidly grabbed his pool cue, twisted forcefully and jerked hard, breaking his grip on it. He got a surprised look on his face, as he hadn't expected that. He was even more surprised when I instantly smacked him hard in the face with the fat end of the cue stick. My next move was going to be to jamb the blunt end in his midsection, but at that moment, Neanderthal A sprang into action. A few seconds ago, they were arch enemies, but now Neanderthal A instantly came to Neanderthal B's rescue.
He shouted, "Fuckin' jackass!" and predictably whipped his cue back, holding it like a baseball bat and swung for the fences.
If nothing else, you had to admire their mastery of the English language, and predictability.
Not predicted by either Neanderthal, I dropped like a sack of rocks the moment Neanderthal A reached the end of his backswing. The fat end of his pool cue whistled over my head like a cruise missile, crashing into the side of his buddy's head, knocking him into the bar. Though stunned, and bleeding profusely from his soon-to-be cauliflowered ear, he didn't hesitate; grabbed my mug of goat piss off the bar, and swung around at his friend's head with an impressively accurate backhand, soaking me with its frothy, golden contents in the process. His friend, who was frozen, trying to process what had just happened, didn't have the sense to react and took the glass mug directly in the face, blood instantly gushing from his nose and mouth. He rocked back, tripped over a chair and crashed to the floor.
Unlike in the movies, the mug didn't break, just the guy's face. At that moment, my feet, instinctively reacted, turned my body and headed it straight for the exit. Good thing.
As soon as things looked like they were going to get out of hand, the astute bartender called the police. As l exited the bar, they came sliding up at an angle to the sidewalk, lights flashing. Amazing response time, yes? They had probably been sitting nearby watching for a drunk to come out and get in his car.
As they jumped out of their cruiser, I turned right to head up the street and exclaimed over my shoulder, "Big fight in there. Couple guys going at it," and kept walking.
The cops rushed into the bar and I promptly spun on my heel, doubling back down the street to my car. I was pretty sure everybody in the bar would say I started the fight; which was not entirely inaccurate. I turned into the parking lot on the side of the bar, quickly got in my vehicle, cranked up the engine and backed out. As I did, I saw two goons had cornered a female and were obviously hassling her. I'm sure all they wanted was for her to explain the difference between a supernova and a hypernova; but I was equally sure she didn't know the difference between the two novae. Okay, maybe they wanted something else...
I thought, "You gotta be kidding me," as it was very bad timing. I needed to make a hasty exit, but I couldn't ignore the woman's plight. I gunned my car and slid up next to the trio, lowering my passenger window as I skidded to a stop.
I shouted, "Honey, get in the fucking car! The cops are here!"
The two guys looked towards the street and saw the patrol car's flashing lights reflecting off the buildings. The woman, staring at me wide-eyed, jumped in the car and I peeled out, leaving the goons staring at my taillights.
"Hi, honey. How was your day?" I nonchalantly asked the woman, who was mashed up against my door in a defensive posture.
"I don't know you," she exclaimed in a shaky voice.
"No, you don't, but I thought you might need a hand back there."
"My car?" she questioned, looking back as I exited the scene of the crime, so to speak.
"We'll come back and get your car after the police leave...Pray tell, what were you doing in the dimly lit parking lot of a less than reputable establishment like "Mugs and Jugs?"
(I kid you not. That's the name of the joint. And while I saw quite a few ugly 'mugs' in there, there was a paucity of 'jugs' - at least any I would want to see in the light of day. Of course, I could be misinterpreting the meaning of the two words.)
"I was looking for my brother," she replied.
"Describe him; maybe I saw him."
"He's big, about 6'-2" and has dark hair and a mustache..."
I mused to myself, "Neanderthal A."
"What?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing. Did he have a broken nose and missing teeth?"
"No, why?"
"He does now."
"Did you do that?"
"Nah, Neanderthal B did that - long story, which ends with your brother's buddy slamming a beer mug into his mug."
"Oh, no."
"Yup."
