BRUTAL
(A Tale Featuring MAJESTIC Agent Thor Alexander)
by Steven L. Shrewsbury

I walked in that Harley bar in Texas with full clips and a hard on. Ya would think fellas hanging out in an establishment called THE BLOODY BUCKET would be more friendly to a guy my size and proper breeding. Shit damn, most of them folks looked at me like I owed them money.

"Well, what will it be, blondie?" the rather abrasive bar-tender asked me as he stamped out a smoke in an ashtray full of butts. I dunno what made this dude more special to me: The lack of bottom front teeth or the network of tattoos coursing all over his flesh. The tank top was entirely too revealing for a man that fat, but I digress.

I pulled on the brim of my hard billed cap and threw back my long blonde hair. A few skanky looking gals adhering to the bar looked me. True enough, they had seen guys over six foot eight in their lives, but few like ol’ Thor Alexander.

"Oh, nothin’ to drink, ol’ son," I drawled out, leaning on the bar, eyes scanning the rowdy bunch. "Just lookin’ fer a man."

The bar tender lit another smoke, scratched a tattoo that said LOVE ONLY TO MOTHER and muttered, "We don’t serve no fruits in here, buddy."

"I don’t eat them motherfuckers, either," I retorted sharply. Through the smoky haze of cigarettes and hash, I spotted my target. He was playing pool at the back table, not a care in the world, a dozen bikers between us. Jimbo Reeves, serial rapist, drug dealer, trafficker of crystal meth and general all around swell person. "Ya see, sport, I’m searchin’ for a killer."

The bloodshot eyes of the barkeep narrowed at me. "Good luck in here, pal. Who the fuck are you? Come in here in combat boots and a duster coat, shit, ya some kinda Texas Ranger?"

"Thor Alexander," I said quietly. Seeing as the room was starting to inspect me with greater detail, I waited for a gap in the Molly Hatchet CD and decided honesty was the best policy. "I’m an agent for a super secret cabal in the government. We don’t exist on paper, and we have our own agenda. Ya see, Jimbo Reeves over there dealt some bad crap to the wrong fellas. They sold it to a Congressman’s son in the military and he killed off his girlfriend. Shit like that pisses off the good humor man who runs MAJESTIC SERVICES."

With some pride, the bar-tender waved at the dozen bikers in front of Reeves and proclaimed, "Thems the Screaming Skulls of Satan, Thor, if that is your name. They are meaner than a rabid pit bull with AIDS."

"Rogue Sunday school class?" I asked, scratching my heavy beard.

"Baddest gang in Texas. Fuck with them they will make your ass into a bow tie. They’ll fuck you and kill you, but not really in that order."

I sighed and stepped away from the bar. Setting my boots down firm, my coat opened. "Well, that is special. Here I am, plum outta greeting cards."

When my hands went in my coat and returned with two small Uzis, a make unlike these bozos have ever seen, the barkeep shouted, "What the fuck do you think you are doing?"

I shrugged. "Don’t confuse me with someone with a conscious." I faced Jimbo across the fog and wall of biker bodies. Many went into their leather jackets, but I winked and said, "Lets dance."

Uzi accuracy sucks, but it is a good thing this wasn’t an issue. In the close quarters of the tavern, I couldn’t miss. Squeezing both triggers the guns erupted, pumping rounds of bullets into the Screaming Skulls of Satan. I made them live up to their names. As shots pierced breastbones and bellies, screams, shouts and broken glass rebounded in my ears. The cacophony of shrills above the gunfire was about as hot as any lick put down by Dickey Betts. Wave after wave of bullets spread out on them dozen buzzards, making them wilt all like a pecker on salt-peter. As the juke-box blared with the voice of the late Van Zandt, they were Free As a Bird Now…only their souls were plummeting to a well deserved Hell.

My clips spent, but Jimbo Reeves still moved. He crawled, shot in the thigh, toward the men’s room door. I stepped over the twitching bodies, returning the Uzis to my coat. Remembering the end of the final John Wayne flick, I went to my coat pocket, took out a small 38 that barely fit my big hand and faced the bar keep. Sure damned enough, that limp dicked fuck was aiming a sawed off shot gun at me. I fired twice as he pulled the triggers of the shotgun. I struck the skull tattoo of Hitler on his left bicep. Ol’ Dolph took one in the cheek. Never saw right away where the other bullet went because I ducked my head, letting my bulletproof duster coat take the scattered shot of his discharge. The force of the blast threw me against the wall, knocking the Rebel Flag askew, but quickly, I stood tall again.

"Damn, his upper teeth are gone now," I said of the bartender and righted the flag on the wall. I looked down at Jimbo Reeves and thumbed the hammer of the pistol.

"Oh God, you can’t just kill me!" he whined, clutching his bloody leg, shaking so bad he dropped his automatic pistol. He reached for it again, but I never fired. Blood saturated his fingers and Jimbo lost the gun again. This time, I stomped on his hand, breaking many fingers, I wager.

"Sure I can," I laughed. "You fuckers who wave yer dick at the law best get used to the fact that some folks out there don’t give a shit about yer soul, much less yer rights."

"But…" Jimbo wailed.

I leveled the pistol at the head of Reeves and sighed. "It’s a brutal world out there ol’ son. Yer end of the gene pool is too fucking cloudy. Just think of me as chlorine."

When I left THE BLOODY BUCKET, I was different than when I went in, for sure.

I had empty clips.

©2003 Steven L. Shrewsbury

www.stevenshrewsbury.com