Flash fiction from Black Tarn Publishing
Ducasse on the Ropes
Ducasse on the ropes, man-about-town, comes in all bluster n’blow, all over the show. Some man. Headcracked and jacket torn he wanders back in the bar, and the cunts in there wonderin where Big Mickey is, the one who dragged Ducasse out back only moments before, one of their own, hardest cunt among em. Big Mickey, Jagger Mick, Boulder Mickey, never been floored in a fight. Now this cunt, man of the road, comes in nosebleedin, jacket sliced up but no cuts on him. Mickey’s been swingin knives, and it’s just dawnin on em, I know it already but they’re just gettin it, if Big Mickey’s been swingin knives and Ducasse is still standin, then their man’s throat’s been cut. Bartender goes out back, slips outside, comes back in all pasty white like, seen something he has and we all know what it is — Dead Mickey’s what it is, and now they know it. I’m lookin at Ducasse, his jacket tattered, the black leather jacket of a rapist and maniac, and he goes over and sticks a tune on the jukebox, Iggy Pop he puts on, that’s what he plays, cause now he’s pumped. Goes and plants two fists on the bar, bloody fists and broken, looks at the barman, doesn’t need to say anything, the drink is set right up for him. Nobody’s fuckin with him now. Fucken Ducasse. Just wired and pumpin and sweatin.
Ducasse takes a hard pull on his bottle and puts it back on the bar all controlled like, turns his attention back to the barman. ‘Know where I can get a ride round here?’ he says.
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