I've always liked bars.
They're churches for the broken. They don't judge you, they don't try to fix you, and if you've got five bucks and a story to tell, you're in.
Tonight's bar is called Redman's. It smells like bleach and regret. Neon signs buzz like bad wiring in my head. The kind of place where no one remembers your name because nobody cares. That's the point.
I order Henny. Neat. I don't sip it. I baptize my insides. Everything burns going down these days. Maybe that's why they call me Mickey Flynn. Maybe that's why I call myself burnt up. Past the point of fixing, past the point of lying about being fixed.
The guy next to me's talking about robbing a truck. Claims it's an inside job. I nod. I'm not listening. I'm watching the girl behind the bar. She's got a scar down her neck and eyes that've seen too much. Same eyes I see when I look in the mirror, only hers are sad. Mine are just angry.
Someone lights up a cigarette. Someone else starts arguing with the jukebox. I drain the Henny and order another. I know where this night ends. I know where they all end. In a busted apartment. Alone. Smelling like smoke and shame. That's the kind of life you live when you've already been to hell and realize you liked the heat.
But this isn't a pity story. This is a war story. And tonight, I go back to war.
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