Short Story: Clubbed

By the time she was done, the bodies littered the dancefloor, the tables and the barstools, a mass grave of all who dared to try and stop her. All but one, a single skinhead brought to his knees with the barrel of her pistol pressed against his forehead, at her mercy for as long as she could keep her finger away from the trigger.

She glanced around. The DJ had long since fled, though the last song he played before his sharp exit, a ten-minute number that sounded like it should have been left back in the seventies, still belted out of the speakers. Most of the serving staff had done a runner too, not that she could blame them. She’d probably run too if she found herself at risk of becoming collateral damage to one of her… “brawls”. Taking a bullet to the head just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time was never a good way to die, was it now? Of those that remained visible, only the skinhead and a solitary bartender that dared to peek over his work surface could be seen. Everyone else had fled, hidden or died.

“Hey, Double-oh-Seven!” she called out to the young man behind the bar, every bit the dead ringer for the fictional secret agent right down to the black bow tie that formed part of his uniform. All he was lacking was the tux.

The bartender, understandably fearing for his dear insignificant life, stammered out something resembling a “Yes?”

“I’ll have that vodka and coke now.” she requested, before raising her voice to the top of her lungs: “Unless ANYONE ELSE HAS A PROBLEM WITH ME HAVING A DRINK IN PEACE!!”

The skinhead joined his voice with those from behind all available cover to answer in unison: “HELL NO!”

Author’s Note:

I had a lot of wine in my system the other night. This is what resulted. I’m not even sure why I bothered trying to clean it up, to be honest.

Creative Commons Licence
This short story is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

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