Midnight Bar

A man with a tattered trench coat sat on a tilted stool and guzzled his beer down, trying to finish it as if it was the end of days. The foam splashed and dripped off his face. He was not at all concerned about the mess as his coat was already dirty and stained.

This bar was in a seedy place anyways. It was run-down, broken, stained with the smell of mold and rotten wood, which fell off in most places. It did not attract the most well dressed or well mannered.

There was only one yellow light that illuminated the bar counter, while the rest of the small room was drenched in shadows. Hardly any light came from the boarded up windows. This was a place for the abandoned and the despaired, a midnight bar.

The drunk man had messy dark hair with ends that were frayed like it caught fire. His nose was a little flat perhaps from it being smashed so much. With an uncaring loudness, he slurped up the last drop and let his arms go soft so that he let his glass fall down with thud, not too hard to crack it, but enough to give a loud thud to an empty bar. 

“Another one sir?” asked the bartender after a few seconds had passed.

The man with the coat looked up, then hiccuped. 

A normal person would have screamed, a sane one would have ran, and a drunk one would have been induced to vomit from the terror of seeing the bartender being dead, yet talking as if all was right with the world.

“Bah. Why not?! It’s mmmy birthday!” said the drunk man.

“Really?” the bartender exclaimed as he whipped a glass.

He was definitely a ghost – that – the drunk man knew even while the room spun in a whirl, although that was hardly enough reason to get himself riled up, not by this particular ghost.

What once was a tall man with long hair and a curled goatee was now a thinly pale version of himself. His skin was a faded blue and his eyes sunken and sucked in, like having his insides sucked out. Where the whites of the eye were once were, were now bleached black, his hair pure white, and there was an unnatural glow about him. Most notable, the feature of intrigue and macaque question was the hole in the bartender’s chest, right below the neck. His tie and vest were torn from what could be attributed to a bullet wound. There was only a dried up red splotch on what would be called a spiffy looking vest and button up.

The bartender’s arm passed under and through the bar counter as a ghost could do, they need not worry about objects getting in the way as reality often does. Then the bartender carefully picked up the beer glass in a way that the living hoped the dead could not do. Fortunately, this ghost was content with no vengeance. 

“Nah!” the drunk man cackled, “my birthday was four months ago. I am just making excuses to drink.”

“It’s better for both of us if you know what you drink for.”

The drunk man glanced back up.

This bartender most often had a resting face equal to that of a skilled poker player, giving out an emotion only when necessary. At this moment he gave a grave looking smile, one full of confidence and authority, although laced with a little witty curve on the side of his mouth, like he knew things most did not. The best bartenders were always cheeky and could think on their feet, offering life advice to unsolicited troubles as quick as whipping up drinks that, well, forgot they were even ordered.

“Better so I – so I don’t end up like you?”

“Better for my floor, so you don’t puke on it.” 

This caused them both to laugh. 

The drunk man swayed, then came to rest while holding his throat.

“Meehee-haaa.” the drunk man held his breath, then exhaled, “I I thought that was it, but I sent it back down. My lunch – no breakfaaaast – I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning in fact.”

The drunk man held up his finger and scoffed, admitting his troubles easily after two beers, three cocktails, and a glass of wine, more than most, although not the record for this bartender.

“My, my. It tells.”

“Yeah, yeah. What’s your name Specter? I can’t forgo courtesy to the one who serves me drinks just because you are dead.”

The bartender tried to roll up his sleeves, but it did not work. Many ghosts have the same dispositions and mannerisms, going about their days in the same way when they were alive. Old habits die hard, that the drunk man knew.

“Bogdan.” he said, nodding his head, “and yours sir?”

The drunk man grabbed the edge of the bar and spun himself on the spinning bar stool, delighted, then upset that it made him sick. After holding up his hand, then rubbing his chest, he regained his composure.

“Micah.”

“Pleased to serve you, Micah.”

“Likewise, Bogdan. Finding your popup bar was hard.”

“Specter bars tend to be – we are all fleeting, free roaming folk. Free from life, held captive in death.”

“Well. I had to

 What happened?” Bogdan asked, taking down a glass of scotch from the top of the liquor lined shelves.

He tipped the amber liquid into a short glass and slid it in front of Micah.

“On the house.”

Micah took the glass and eyed its simple form. It glowed orange radiated with sweetness and nuttiness, before it hit his tongue. He swept it up into the air and let it rain down into his throat with a memorable burn.

“Thanks.” 

Micah felt the warmth and the comfort like a heated blanket wrapping around his mind.

“And to answer your question. Yeah – I lost a dear friend today. A partner in fact.”

Bogdan gave a sigh and leaned down on the counter, floating right above the cracked counter. His face was solemn and serious, along with drooping eyes that gave away his concern. Even dead, he was a good bartender, who at least pretended to be empathetic. 

“It’s always sad, even in your line of work.”

Micah folded his arms and let his head hang. He really was ragged; his clothes were full of holes, tears, rips, all stitched or patched. Underneath the coat, he had a gun holstered to his side. This made Bogdan uneasy for more than one reason, although he said nothing of it, as he was both a Specter and a well-experienced bartender who knew enough about brawls. Being a Specter meant having some amount of power compared to the still living. 

Micah’s face bandages began to slip and he pressed them back up to his face, giving Bogdan a view of his arm where a few stray ends of medical tape hung out from his sleeves. 

“It was worse than usual.” Micah explained, focusing on his speaking without slurring, “everyone – everyone – knows – absolutely, knows that when they join our group that they probably will die. Horribly at that. Specter hunting is ain’t fun. No…I only do it for a paycheck. Damn Specter Hunter Society! And this last one – they – were – so -stingy! Says we should not have gone near that place. Half-pay despite what we brought back.” His fist hit the table with the last word.

Micah’s face puffed out as if was going to finally rid his stomach of excess alcohol, but again he relaxed and held it in, saving trouble of having putrid breath, more so than currently. 

“I have heard chatter of that sort of cut-throat business. I suppose an organization that hunts the dead is not going to be the most moral. At least not that one.” Bogdan said and offered another glass.

Micah extended his hand with the glass, but halted.

“No. I know. My limits. I now do.”

Bogdan took the glass from him and eyed Micah with an intense interest. There was a story to every customer and the ones the bartender preferred to hear most were the ones where a lesson was learned.

“Very well.” Bogdan fastened the scotch and placed it back on the shelf.

“I was quite arrogant, you see. I suppose the dreamer has to be.”

“Those that bring change need to be. That was the conventional wisdom when I was alive.” The bartender responded and looked far off to the wall as if there was something there worth looking at.

“Aye. But that is for the ones who can.”

“Can what?” 

“Stand confidently. Arrogance is excessive pride, and pride is balanced confidence. A fool has just arrogance, who has just false pride, and that was me.”

“You got your partner killed by being overconfident.” the bartender said with crossed arms.

“Yeah…that’s it in a nutshell. Bah! I drank so much of my own pride. Blinded me more than any booze could get me! Nothing would have stopped me from going there. Not myself, and certainly not Cain.” 

“Where was it?”

“You know where. Every Specter Hunter goes to take up that challenge.”

The bartender raised his eyes and shook his head, tossing his long strands of hair around.

“The Chrysanthemum? You went inside the Gardens.” 

To surprise a ghost was a hard thing to do, but mention one innocuous sounding word – the name of a flower no less – and they will become agitated. There are things that ghosts were afraid of, terrors that cut them far better than a purification weapon.

“A place of riches. More wealth hoarded there than an oil Prince. A place saturated with Specters, not kind like you. Cruel and wicked bitterness so acrid you can feel it in the air before you even come to the bog surrounding it. Not to mention, the Original One. The oldest Specter around.

“The Recluse got him – your friend Cain.” Bogdan said and shook his head with pity.

“Yeah. That Specter kills everything, but you find no rest there in that place – it’s beyond time. Tortures you for as long as it still exists. Cain is still in there, dying a thousand deaths over again.”

“What a horrid fate for any.”

Micah squeezed his fist together, closed his eyes, and took a breath to keep the lurching away. 

“I was trying to imitate.”

“And you realized you were far from that level.”

“Cassandra. She was the only one to injure Recluse. I thought I was better than the other Spectral Hunters. Thought I had better skills than them. They all fared better than I did and still died. I lived only due to Cain.”

“Cassandra has been a legend for the past decade. Even when I was a human, I heard of her victories. She won’t be surpassed by the likes of you.”

“You are preaching to the drunk and dumb. I know that – but I’m going back anyways.”

Bogan fell into a silence.

“You’re crazy!” he said, raising his arms, “and I am the dead one, here.”

“And soon will I.” Micha said soberly.

“What use is that then? You barely got out there.”

“His soul will suffer there – Cain’s. The least I can do is trade places.”

The bartender tried to stroke and twiddle his mustache, although his fingers simply went through hairs.

“A bargain, heh – do you think the most well known Specter hunter killer would make a deal with you?” 

Micah tilted his head up and glared with an impassable coldness, each second layered with dense, unflinching determination. The bartender understood why this man was so confident beforehand as his demeanor said it all, in no uncertain terms: I will win.

“While being a mass murder killing manic, Recluse always has strange tastes for deals. She likes certain tastes of suffering. ”

“Specters do all have different tastes.”

“As you can tell. I give off plenty of despair. You have been feeding off it the whole time I was here.”

Bogdan let go of his stoic resting face and flashed a devilish smile at Micah. 

“A place that sells alcohol to the damned is a great place to feed.” 

 Micah smiled back, yet it was a mad kind of smile, rather than jovial. There is some craziness to be expected when you get along with ghosts, who are more like vampires who feed off the ills of the living. 

“I bet you really want to kill me right now, don’t ya?” Micah said as if it was a challenge, cautiously reaching at his side.

The bar grew cold enough for ice crystals to creep onto the bar, appearing like a blast of arctic wind from where Bogdan floated. The feeling gasped Micah and held him in a restrictive tension like a hundred wolves on the edge of a treeline, waiting for the moment to strike.

But it did not come.

“Yes. But. I will remain professional. The other clientele will arrive soon and it’s best not to stir things up tonight.” Bogdan said calmly, and took Micah’s beer glass and placed it in the sink that was behind him.

The air settled and the chill receded as everything de-escalated. 

“I heard you were even headed. That’s why I came to this place for one last drink.”

“I wasn’t when I was alive. It’s what got me killed by my wife for cheating. Although it was stealing her cat that did me in.”

“Sounds like I should make you a drink.” Micah said with a laugh.

“Speaking of your drinks. You wracked up quite a tab. I should ask you to stay the whole night to consume all of your despair. I can’t take money, you know.”

“I have places to be.” Micah said, then brandishing his gun.

A Specter Hunter always carries a purification weapon of some kind. Engaging with them is only for the most ravenous Specters who run out of time to feed.

“Thought as much. I hope you have at least learned to appreciate your life so far. It’s not going to get better.” 

Micah stood up, stumbled around a little, but positioned himself straight up, putting his hands in his pockets and acting as sober as he could.

“I learned I should have counted my steps concisely, planned within actual – actuality. Stayed in the bounds of real – reality. Yeah, dreams don’t happen overnight, no matter how much I wish them. I appreciate everything up till now. I would hope the young new recruits I tutored recently could figure out my mistakes. Someone has to make them first.”

“Someone has to show them.” Bogdan finished Micah’s lingering thought.

“Exactly. Give up for what you put up. Life’s that type of gamble. I’ve lost, maybe someone else hasn’t. I will certainly amend my mistakes when it comes to Cain.”

Bogdan took the same bottle of scotch and held it out to Micah.

“Take it. You probably will need a good drink by the time you see Recluse. I hear it’s worse seeing that thing a second time. She already has more than enough time to know your mind.”

Micah takes the bottle and places it in his coat pocket.

“Dead or alive. It’s some kind of virtue meeting a person like you.”

“Get out of here, Micah, before I kill ya.” Bogdan said with a smile.

And he meant it.

Micah gave a wave like he was departing a good friend and exited the bar out the back from where he came. Around a rusted door and a hanging plastic tarp was a soggy alleyway, overflowing with trash. He walked under a moonless night past a couple of dead, shriveled bodies. 

This night Micah would not sleep, nor would any other night thereafter, as he headed straight for The Chrysanthemum Gardens. The nightmare-land where all hubris filled people go to die when their dreams fade. One day perhaps a better world would come, one without The Recluse, but not tonight.