Seth's Journal 05

Waiting is the most annoying part of any job. Every second becomes an epoch of boredom tinged with anxiety coating the back of my throat. Having to nurse a beer was no help. I wasn’t immune to the spell I cast, either, so I was getting as irritable as everyone else in the bar.

I would certainly not have chosen this place as a casual haunt. I dig dive bars, but this place was just kind of sad. It had the tang of a place that had lost its glory, and that’s just a bit too depressing. The actual bar was made of real wood imported from Ireland, but it was in horrid shape from systematic neglect. As a Tuatha, I hate to see that happen to an Irish place. I also didn’t appreciate the Fomorian bartender judging me. I was judging him, of course, but the stereotypes between our split race are a bit of a sore spot for me. I don’t mind being spawned of the pretty side of the island, but Fomorians tend to view Tuatha as the weaker side of the family, pisses me off. There’s probably a lot of Fomorian corpses who would tell you I was no pushover, were they able.

I avoided making eye contact with Pawn, who was seated across the bar. I could tell by the set of his shoulders that, despite the fact that he knew the effects of the spell, he, too, was growing more irritable. The bar was getting slowly quieter as people began losing the urge to talk to one another. The bartender was getting on edge. His hardened experience was evident not only from his ability to read his crowd, but also from the impressive collection of weapons displayed behind him. The caked blood told me he favored the shillelagh. Typical.

After the seemingly eternal wait of 48 minutes, our mark entered the bar, slightly behind schedule. I was unimpressed. Mr. Reardon was a smarmy human who looked like he thought he was the blue collar king. His boots were too nice, though. They made a big show of being work boots without the telltale grime of legitimate labor. He had that biker mustache, but he’d probably never ridden a day in his life. He was a pretentious fuck. I know. I can spot one a mile away.

He ordered his beer and attempted to chitchat with the reticent bartender. He gave up and watched the soccer game, which, if our intel was correct, would be the catalyst we needed. He got into it, alternately hurling insults and approbation at the television screen. He wasn’t alone. As the game went on, emotions ran high. There wasn’t much dissent in the bar as to the more worthy team. Good.

Pawn walked over and stood in the small crowd near Reardon, under the implicit pretense of getting a better view. It was obvious Pawn wasn’t welcome. Korea Republic was struggling valiantly against Republic of Ireland, and, while Pawn is Japanese, all the other bar patrons saw was a Tsume. They all look alike, right?

Korea scored and Pawn let out an obnoxious cheer. I channeled more power in my emotional agitation aura while, hands working under the table, I wrapped Pawn and myself with protective energies. Pawn faked a stumble into Reardon, making him spill his beer. Off we go, apparently, I thought to myself.

Reardon swung around, eyes ablaze. “Watch yourself, you fucking gook,” he spat. Pawn’s mechanical tail twitched with agitation, feigning uncertainty.

I stood up. “Yeah, pussy cat. Curiosity ain’t the only thing ever did one of y’all in.” I narrowed my eyes dangerously and I felt the small group grow bold with my words, ready to follow.

Pawn’s green eyes grew with the semblance of fear as he stammered with a thick Asian accent that he does not have. “Hey, guys, I don’t want any trouble,” he said, backing away. A few peacemaker-types gathered behind him to try to calm things down.

“Too late for that now,” I said as I grabbed the lapel of his leather jacket. Right on cue, he decked me and I went down like a cheap whore. He was supposed to pull his punch, but I think my spell might have be working too well.

At that point, the group surged over me and the brawl began. The crowd had gained its momentum, so I dropped my mood-affecting aura and diverted all energies to our protective shields. Pawn put up a good fight, dishing out some punishment and taking every blow with kabuki exaggeration. The bartender was screaming and brandishing a baseball bat, and I saw someone draw a knife. Beautiful. I quickly grabbed a small knife out of my pocket and plunged it into Reardon’s kidney three times. I gave two others in the crowd fairly serious wounds before re-stashing it. I jumped to my feet.

“C’mere, you fuck!” I screamed at Pawn, our signal. He bolted for the door with most of the mob following. I chased him for the few blocks it took for the rest of the crowd to lose their bloodlust. We kept running for a while, weaving a chaotic path through the city, before I whistled sharply. He slowed his pace and I caught up as he called Patch for the pickup.

“Nicely done,” I said as he took the phone from his ear. “I hope that looked natural enough.”

Pawn rubbed his jaw pensively.”We’ll see. Sure felt natural. Wanna get some Thai food on the way home?”

“Oh, I could kill for some Thai. But, knowing my primary income source, I probably just did.”