The deafening roar ceased with suddenness, but the air of inevitable doom did not. Evil, it seemed, was not only tapping at the threshold, but ready to kick the damn door in without knocking.
“And one of the beasts said, ‘Come and see’, and I saw,” continued Cash, the music ending, the portentous biblical verse continuing.
“And beheld a pale horse, and the name it said on it was Death. And wherever he went, Hell followed.”
The song ended. My heart sank. The bar was transfixed by some pending, dreaded event. Fear made its presence known in the faces and the breathing and the silence of the patrons. Even the gods were mum. Then came the sound of heavy boots on wood, and, as the front door slammed open, the unholiest of trios sauntered in.
They walked slowly and with purpose, three bikers from hell dressed in black leather, wearing black frowns, carrying black intentions. A cold, unforgiving darkness seemed to hover over their heads and permeate the entire bar. The leader was a behemoth of a man, at least three hundred pounds, hair covering his face and arms, a human grizzly bear hungry for trouble. To his side was a muscular brute wearing a black leather vest that revealed massive tattooed arms, a tattooed neck, and even the ink-stained dome of his shaved head. And the third beast was a tall, toothless warrior with scars on his face and a long black ponytail that looked as slimy and menacing as a snake. They walked with fists clenched, and I could see their fingers were adorned with shiny metal rings that bore skulls and crossbones and other symbols of darkness and death.
“I need some whiskey,” said the man-bear of a biker. “Bartender, get us some whiskey down here!” he demanded.
“It’s last call,” she said. “We’re closing.” I had the feeling she was lying, hoping the unholy trio would leave.
“Closing? I don’t think so. Get us some whiskey.”
“Sorry, I said last call.” She tried to sound stern, but the crackle in her voice revealed her unease.
The behemoth of a beast grabbed her left arm and forcefully pulled her slender body into the bar. No one came to her aid.
“I’ll tell you when it’s last call, bitch!”
That was all I could stand. Whether emblazoned by beer or feeling empowered by the events of the evening, I leaped out of my seat and confronted the man-bear. I wasn’t afraid. After all, I had the gods on my side.
“Let her go!” I demanded as I stood before him, my shoulders arched back, my fists clenched and an expression of fearlessness on my face to prove my resolve.
The behemoth man-bear looked down at me in disbelief. Then a smile opened on his face and I saw missing teeth and tobacco-stained gums and smelt the rancid stench of beef jerky and cheap liquor and burgeoning wickedness on his breath. Slowly, he released his left hand from the bartender’s arm and, with a stealthness of motion, grabbed my throat with his right. It was a powerful embrace. Instantly the air was choked out of me, my confidence gone with the wind. I was frightened beyond belief.
“So, you want to be a hero, hey boy?” said the behemoth of a biker. His cohorts cackled like demons along with him. Then with his free hand he unleashed a punch to my stomach that was so hard I swore I was hit by a wrecking ball. It felt as though life was literally knocked out of me. He released me from his evil clutch and I staggered to stay on my feet. Then he hit me in the face with a roundhouse punch that was delivered with all the impact of a steel locomotive. I felt a tooth fly out of my mouth as my body crumpled helplessly to the hard wooden floor.
“Help!” I heard the bartender scream. “Jay! Mo! Help him!” she pleaded. “I thought you were his friends!” But there would be no help coming from the Holy Ones.
“I have always preached to turn the other cheek,” remarked Jesus.
“Violence only begets violence,” said Muhammad.
“Alas, I am too old and too weary to fight,” lamented Moses.
“I am a man of peace, a lover of tranquility,” declared Buddha. “Besides, this must be happening for a reason. Everything does. And I don’t want to mess with karma.”
“You are all a bunch of cowards!” Sigmund Freud scolded the gods. “And you call yourselves prophets and saviors? No wonder attendance is down in your temples and churches! People are losing faith in your religions and turning to all that New Age garbage for guidance!”
“Why don’t you help him, Siggy?” I heard one of the Holy Ones say.
“I can’t. They have obvious anger-management issues. That makes them prospective clients. I don’t want to jeopardize any potential doctor/patient trust.”
The beating continued while I lay defenseless on the floor. Instinctively, I rolled my injured body into a fetal position and covered my face as the unholy trio began kicking me with their hard, steel-tip boots. The sounds I now heard were a cacophony of boots hitting wood and steel-toed leather smashing my flesh. Every blow was delivered with incalculable power, my body being dented, battered, bruised and broken. I noticed a pool of warm, fresh blood widen and grow under my face. Surely, I was going to die.
Just then I heard a thunderous crash and a shattering of glass, as if a lightning bolt had demolished the front window. The beating abruptly stopped. And in the aftermath of thousands of shards of glass landing on wood, and the gasps of dozens of surprised people, resonated a booming commandment that sounded like the voice of God.
“GET YOUR FILTHY PAWS OFF HIM YOU BUNCH OF NO-GOOD PENCIL NECK GEEKS!”
With all my effort I raised my head slightly from the ground, and with eyes blurred from blood and tears beheld a heavenly vision. Here in Lander, coming to my rescue, dressed in skimpy blue wrestling tights with a world championship belt around his waist, was my savior, Classy Freddie Blassie!
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