MURPHY'S PUB is one of my favorite haunts in Seattle. You don't have to deal with pretentious shit. It's just cheap bar food and old Seattleites minding their damn business. It's near a record store I like and was part of my old, daily routine. Going inside feels like a return to form. Like my old life is still waiting for me. I can go back and pick it up, and it will be there to ignore and shun me like a moody cat. You want to give it affection but all it does is take massive shits and expect you to clean it up. Life and cats have a lot in common. Not the pub though, there's not shit there.
I take my time to order and fuck around. Seahawks are getting their ass kicked on the big screen. Totally forgot it was sportsball season. My shopping bags are at my feet and a pint comes my way. A little bit of heaven to finish off the day.
I'm sitting at the bar enjoying this blissful pint and chicken wings when I get a shudder of annoyance. There's no magic to it. You just know when some piece of shit is looking at you. Before my Witchy Sense starts tingling I can already tell the fucker looking at me is gonna be trouble. He comes into view and I hate him just for what he looks like. He's got badly dyed green hair, a Three Arrows tattoo on the shaved side of his head, and a smug pizza face that screams 'I've only been on HRT for 3 or 6 months but my God Complex is fully developed.' He's dressed like every trust fund punk in this shit hole of a city.
He saunters by and beckons for me to join him in the alley with a shit eating grin and a head nod. I grit my teeth and know this will end in violence. I get a flashback to the last time I beat the shit out of a trans guy half my size. I remember his head hitting a car's bumper. Blood. I try to shut the memory up. The speakers are now blasting Warren Zevon. Making me leave the bar while a Zevon song is playing is a gottverdammt solid reason to hate you. 'He was born in Big Beaver by the borderline,' the speakers sing. I get up and follow the little shit.
We meet outside in the alley. I hover over him and he starts talking at me. His voice is cracking and his tone is so pompous I can already feel my face turning red.
“The Pharaoh doesn't like you stepping on his toes. He and Andras go way back....” He sounds like a whiny teen giving a speech to his internet sycophants.
“Are you for real?” I start laughing.
“You're a newcomer. Not just to the witching community but also the queer community. You want to end up a social pariah? That's just the start. Your friend Annie Maerie is already 20k in debt from her liable charges. That's the beginning of what The Pharaoh is doing to her. So listen carefully...”
“Annie is nobody's friend. Fuck her and fuck you.” I interrupt him.
I couldn't give less than a shit about Annie. He continues. His composure is starting to crack just a tiny bit. His body language tenses up.
“How much money do you have? Our stolen money. You are up shit creek, everyone already hates you, and you want to keep digging?” he asks.
He has no fucking idea that my hand in my coat pocket is on the Sig and it's aiming directly at his stomach. My body instinctively shifts into a fighting stance. He doesn't notice.
“Dig till daylight's my motto.” I say in my best 'Kurt Cobain giving an interviewer a hard time' performance. I won't give him the sanctification of knowing how much he's pissing me off.
“SHUT UP AND LISTEN!” he screams.
His voice cracks and I laugh again. He's turned red and his smug attitude finally gives way to a whiny teenager's temper tantrum. Most trans people when they start HRT are insufferable. His tirade starts anew. My mind checks out of the conversation. I'm just listening to the speakers in the distance while he yammers on. His wild gesturing and posturing overshadow his words anyway.
'Buddy's real talent was beating people up
His heart wasn't in it but the crowd ate it up, ...' the speakers sing to me.
“... You think Greg and Jerry will protect you? You're disposable...” he shrieks and stomps his feet.
'He must have racked up more than three hundred fights, ...'
“...Look at you! An oogle who can disappear at any moment and no one would miss you...” He says with zero self awareness. He's exactly the same as me. A nobody.
'There's always room on our team for a goon
Son, we've always got room for a goon, ...'
I look this little shit up and down. I'm 5'11”. I weigh 158lb. I've been in more fights than I can remember. Why am I taking this shit? Why am I letting this little fuck talk me to death? My fist closes and I tune him out entirely. Like a well practiced and memorized dance, my fist flies into his nose. Then the side of his head. He stumbles back into a wooden fence and I hammer his whole body with all my weight.
'There were Swedes to the left of him,
Russians to the right
A Czech at the blue line looking for a fight
Brains over brawn, that might work for you
But what's a Canadian farm boy to do?'
I punch the chubby bastard in the gut. He doubles over and falls against a dumpster. You want to be part of toxic masculinity? Well, here's lesson one. I punch him in the gut again and in the ribs. He falls down crying, then I kick him a few times for good measure. The flashes of that night I beat the shit out of that other kid almost a decade ago have merged with the now. I'm there and here. Back then I was terrified I'd killed him. Now I'm enraged at myself for not killing the fucker in front of his whole collective. The duality of regret, fear, and rage cloud my thoughts. I don't know what I want anymore.
“I'm calling the police!” he screams. Pff, so much for being a punk, anarchist, antifascist.
“Good! You can tell em how you threatened to have me and my friends killed! And don't forget the drugs! Tell them about the drugs and guns!” I shout back.
I let the little bastard limp off but I still have half a mind to kill him. Would anyone know? I could probably get away with it but I let it slide. I go back into the bar and order two more beers for myself. Just like that, it's like none of this happened. It was over in a flash and now normal has returned. Yet I'm still high on adrenaline. Still in fight or flight mode. The fight is over and I just want to run for it. I refuse to. I won't give into instinct. I won't let it control me.
'The fast guys get paid, they shoot, they score
Protect them, Buddy, that's what you're here for,...' the song continues on as if nothing has happened.
I mull it over, reason with myself. I'm not being paid to be a clever witch. I'm a go-for. I do what I'm told. And part of that is, if someone sends me a message, I send one right back. I tell myself this while I gulp down the first beer.
'Protection! Is what you're here for!
Protection! It's the stars that score!, ...'
My job ain't to make the world a better place or even to be part of The Family. My job is to run errands and take out people who cause problems. My job is to make enemies, not friends. I say it to myself again and again, silently in my mind. I down the second beer in less than 30 seconds. My therapist says I like to lose on my own terms. After hearing that, I always second guess myself. A counter point my sex worker friends say, 'trust your gut over everything else.' So I follow my gut first and foremost, and wonder about shit after the fact.
'Protection! Go and kick somebody's ass!
Protection! Don't put the biscuit in the basket,
just Hit somebody! '
I need to get some clarity. Someone else's opinion. I also need to report in to my witchy overlords. I call Gregory and tell him about the kid.
“Elliot Forest. Don't worry, he's also a nobody. Brian probably sent him to scare ya. If they really wanted the money they'd have hired some local muss, not an oogle. Still, keep one eye open, right? Andras didn't have any real alliance to Brian. I guess he's trying to pretend he did to court anyone who wants to get payback.... not that anyone liked him that much. Truth be told, with Gwen dead that's one less person counter suing Brian. So you actually did him an unknowing favor. Talk about ungrateful.”
“Keep my eyes pealed, right?” I reply.
“You know it. Sorry, kid, looks like we're worse off now than before. But give us some time and we'll figure out how to flip this in our favor. Battle's far from over.”
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