3 Aug

The bar was full; the cigarette smoke so thick there was no choice but to partake. Smoker or not, it wasn’t a personal choice. The band had just left the stage and after a couple of popular top-ten numbers followed by a self-penned anthem and a status-quo tribute, had exited stage left. The pub was in uproar, he’d been right; this was exactly what the place had needed. He’d spent the better part of last weekend sticking up posters all round the town – him and his boy. Homemade posters, that offered some old fashioned rock-and-roll, down at The Slug and Cabbage Pub. The band hadn’t cost him a bundle either, in fact for twenty quid and a couple of pints each, they’d promised him an hour and a half of music. He looked around at the sea of faces and reckoned the money he’d shelled out was well spent. He’d already decided to have them back again, in a week or so. Give the punters time to talk about what a great night they’d had, spread the word a bit – a little costless word-of-mouth advertizing. Back by popular demand! Drinks were flying across the bar, he knew a good time when he saw it. The clink of cold hard cash in the register, the heavy hum of laughter and conversation, a sure sign he was coining it in. 

It was a good crowd, none of your odds and sods, but real, quality people. Girls dressed to kill in short skirts, low tops and high fuck-me heels; doused in gallons of perfume, decorated with glossy lipstick, and smothered in war paint. It was like catching fish with bloody grenades – too bloody easy. Once he’d the girls through the door, the boys would follow, the whiff of freshly showered pussy was all pervasive, the hungry looking lads standing at the bar ready to be unleashed, slipped, and loosed among the pigeons. 

It was the age old game, where boy meets girl in crowded bar, and dreams of living happily ever after were created. A made for each other, alcohol-induced moment, where soul mates randomly came together – love at first sight. More like first grope, lubricated by copious glasses of gin and tonic, he thought, as he smiled warmly to the freshly in-love that stood before him. Didn’t matter much to him though, it was all the same so long as the place was busy. So long as he was making money he was prepared to turn a blind eye to the amorous couples that spent a little too long in the bathrooms or pushed the envelope with their heavy smooching. It wasn’t like he was made of stone, he saw what went on. It certainly made his engine run, and knew for a fact the missus appreciated the extra attention when he got home. 

“Yes sir? Another what?” He shouted to be heard above the Juke box. “Three pints, two vodkas? No problem, coming up. That’ll be twelve pounds fifty. Thank you sir.” 

“Yes love, gorgeous, darling,” the endearments changed depending upon whichever pretty girl stood before him. “A mineral water and an orange juice,” – obviously they’d just arrived. Give them half an hour though and their drink of choice would change. Happy, smiling, drunken, wide-eyed females – a target rich environment. 

If he wasn’t married… ahh, but he was! Cest la vie, he’d made his choices and was happy with them. Three grown daughters to boot, but if they dressed like these tarts he’d give them what for. Good girls they were. Helped their mum, worked hard at school. Not that the women in the bar weren’t good girls they were just different, they weren’t his. He pushed the thoughts of his own family to the back of his mind. They were his pride and joy, the apples of his eyes. God forbid anything should ever happen to any of them. 

“A telephone Sir? Yes Sir, over there by the wall,” He pointed to the door where a bald headed man in a tuxedo was standing. Big Frank. He waved and smiled, Frank waved back. Right-hand man was Frank, didn’t know what he’d do without him. Took no shite did Frank, no fucking messing around. If there was trouble then he could rely on the bald headed bastard to take care of it for him. He’d seen Frank take on many a drunk and win. In fact he’d never seen him lose. But there again Frank was a tee totaling Methodist, not to mention a former district boxing champion. With God on his side and the Marquis of Queensbury rule book stuffed down his trousers he couldn’t fail but win. The drunks that went up against him didn’t stand a chance A quick one two and it was game over. Bloody noses, bloody shirts, puke on the pavement and very occasional a call to the police. Best to keep the rozzers out the picture though, less they knew the better. Didn’t want to get a reputation as a trouble spot or they’d have his license and shut the place down.  Didn’t take much these days with their zero tolerance policies. Community policing they called it, for the benefit of everybody. Bloody totalitarian is what it was. One person steps out of line and they hit everybody with a big stick. Collective punishment, against the bleeding Geneva Convention, bloody unfair. 

A shout went up from the crowd. The band had come back on stage for another encore. Electric that’s what the word was, bloody electric. He sang along, pulling pints and juggling ice cubes. He was a born performer, a people person, not a lot of education but he’d a nose for business. Started his career on the stalls, selling ladies stockings to neglected housewives. The good old days when a pretty face and a quick knee-trembler at the back of the market could get a married woman kitted out in a full set of Janet Reiger unmentionables. Back then though things was simpler, less control, more free. The permissive society and all that, where anything went and usually did. 

He glanced up at the camera he’d recently installed above the till as Dave, his new bar tender, completed a sale. Needed to keep an eye on that one, too shifty by half. So damn sharp he thought, he’d bloody cut himself. Reminded him a little of his self when he’d first started out. He hadn’t noticed any money missing, but he suspected, and he wasn’t normally wrong. No smoke without fire. He smiled at the lad, who smiled back before going about his work. A model of efficiency. Nice lad though, but too sharp, had to be careful of that one. 

“Yes ladies, what’s you poison, what can I get for you?” He poured the Babychams, added the shots, umbrellas and chunks of pineapple. He was quids in. Loved a bit of flash did the Friday night crowd and they were prepared to pay for it too. They were busy and he’d hired extra staff. He turned to look at the new barmaid, beautiful girl, massive jugs with the face of an angel He blew her a kiss and she smiled back, winking provocatively. What he wouldn’t give for five minutes with that piece of horse flesh. The wife would be in for it tonight when he got home. New lass who’d worked in other places. This was only her first night but judging by the way the young fellas at the bar stared down her loosely buttoned top at her ample cleavage, it wouldn’t be her last. 

The crowd were going mad, jumping up and down and singing along to the music. There was probably more beer on the floor than there was in their glasses. Bloody lunatics, what it was to be young, eh?


One Response to “JOHN – THE LANDLORD (RAPE 101)”

  1. Eveline Horelle Dailey August 4, 2011 at 3:00 pm #

    It is very engaging, one may want to read the rest even if society is crumbling at the bar. Go for it see where it goes!

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