A man walks up a dirt track, wiping his hands with a leaf. Up ahead is a bar, the car lot outside covered in chippings and weeds, motorcycles, a van and a few cars. Someone is being sick in the shaded side of the building, hiding from the security lights. At the entrance was a biker smoking a Newport down to the filter. The man greets him, speaking in thick Minnesota dialect. The entrance to the bar were a set of saloon doors that creak as the man enters, wafting shut behind him, pushing smoke out into the night. Thrash metal is playing on a broken speaker overhead, the lights were hazy in the cigarette smoke, giving a sepia tint to everything. Some locals are selling hillbilly heroin to a teen in a leather jacket, his face twisted up from the scars of a car crash. A few bikers stand round a pool table, a game unfinished on the felt, they drink neat whiskey, smoke meth and watch dog races on a phone leant against the cue ball. The woman behind the bar nods at the new arrival, going to pour him a shot of moonshine.
"Now then Barb, tonight I'm celebrating. Get me a drink of that absinthe you got up there."
"I already poured ya shine." She says, he drinks it in one sip.
"Don't mind the same glass." He says. She walks to the end of the bar, returning with a little wooden footstool that she sets down, climbs up and pulls the bottle of absinthe from the top shelf, knocking dead moths down by her feet.
"Ain't you going to ask me what I'm celebrating?" He says, smiling. Barb pours the drink.
"Depends if that'd make me an accomplice." She says. The man's quiet for a moment then starts laughing.
"Haha, damn, an accomplice! You have a low opinion of me Barb. I'd never do that to you." He says, smelling his drink, mouth watering.
"You have a good night now." Says Barb, going over to serve a woman with an eyepatch. The man smells the drink again, holds it by his mouth and dips his tongue in, soaking it in the green liquid before lapping it back into his mouth, rubbing his tongue against his inner cheeks, tensing it so that it concentrates the taste of the spirit. He savours it, closes his eyes, then takes a deep drink, inhaling through his nose so that he gets the scent of it as he gulps down like a pelican. He slams the glass onto the bar top so hard it cracks.
"Oooh momma!" He screeches, tensing his neck so the roots of his skull still out across his shoulders. The others in the bar don't react. He slaps the bar.
"Nurse! Another!" He shouts at Barb.
"Make that two." I say. He looks over to me, leaning back on a bar stool and against the wall, a cowboy hat tilted over my face. I look up, nudging the rim of the hat up.
"Sure, make it two Barb! You celebrating with me, friend?"
"That depends. What we celebrating?" I say, leaning forward, picking up the barstool and setting it next to him. He laughs, looking me up and down
"Ain't you friendly, coming and sitting here. Hey!" He says, turning to the rest of the bar.
"We got ourselves a friendly guy here!" He calls. Nobody reacts. They know better. I take up the glass.
"Here's to celebrating."
"Here, here!" He says, toasting me before we both drink the absinthe. He goes "Wa-ooo!" whilst I look through my pockets for a cigarette.
"Name's Jim. Nice to meet you." He says, offering his hand. We shake. I tell him my name, feeling the knuckles in his hand, strangling my palm, his black eyes look at me like he was imagining violence.
"What you celebrating tonight, Jim?"
"My freedom. My liberty!" He says, laughing again, looking round the room. "Get this fucking music off. We need to play my song."
The music cuts out. I look around the room and realise everybody has stopped talking. They are remaining still, trying to. A few keep wobbling back and forth. Barb goes over to a laptop with a cracked screen connected to the stereo with a filthy cable. Music comes on and Jim starts dancing.
"Can we have another round, Barb?" I say, motioning towards our empty glasses. She refills, steps back.
"I like you, kid. You're my kind of guy." Jim says, putting an arm round my shoulder, pulling me close to his damp t-shirt. I push his hand off, taking my glass.
"Fuck you doing?" I say.
"Relax! I'm just fucking with you." He says. I down the drink, he catches up.
"Another." I say, motioning to the glasses. They fill again.
"Slow down friend, we got all night." He says. I take a bag of ketamine out of my pocket and put it on the bar top.
"Let's do some lines." I say. He dries the bar with his hand beneath his t-shirt, ghostlike. I rack up four chunky lines of the ket, its shards reflect the christmas lights hung behind the bar. I snort a line, down a shot, bang the empty glass on the table twice. Jim follows, I snort another line, take another shot, he follows.
"Want any?" I say, offering the bag to Barb. She takes out a cluster of keys, taking a bump from a brass one, passing me the packet back.
"You like absinthe?" I say, tucking the bag back in my inside pocket.
"Haha, you're funny. Yeah man, I like it. The green fairy. You know people used to drink it, it made them high. A drink that’s a drug."
"More drugs should be drinks." I say. He bursts out laughing.
"You're funny man. Hey, hey, here, do you want some?" He says, taking a bag of white powder out of his pocket. I look into his eyes, pupils dilated. For a moment we are both captivated, the drink and drugs catching up to us. I lick my index finger, dip into the bag then back in my mouth.
"Coke?"
"Yeah man, go on, have some." He says. I lick my finger again dip deep then rub it onto my gums. The bitterness makes my lips tense, I ask for another absinthe, watch Jim tap some out on the back of his hand and snort it.
"You like knives, Jim?" I say, taking a switchblade out of my pocket. He looks at the blade, gurning, reaching for it. I place my hand on the bar, spreading my fingers out.
"I know this game." He says.
"Do you?" I say. Then I start bringing the knife down, stabbing each of my fingers one after another. Jim looks on amazed as I go back after reaching my thumb, leaving two small stabs in each digit as if I'd been bitten. I then swing the switchblade around, pointing the handle toward him.
"Haha, okay, okay, I like this game, yeah." He says, spreading his hand out. The first stab was perfect, bouncing easily out. The second he missed. Tried again. Deep cut along his ring finger. He cursed, making a fist, it pulsed with blood. He kept going.
The atmosphere in the bar had changed from trying to avoid what was happening to absolute focus on what was happening.
"Fuck!" He shouted, stabbing his thumb too hard, a few drops of blood hitting his face and dribbling down.
"Want another drink?"
"Let me fucking finish!" He says, stabbing down, missing again. His hand was bloodier than mine, it rolled off his fingers and started to spread across the bar, whilst barely a drop had been spilled from my neat wounds.
"The trick is accuracy. You should aim for the bone, bounce when you feel resistance." I say, hovering behind his shoulder.
"Get the fuck off me." He says, stabbing the remainder of his fingers, throwing the switchblade on the bar and downing another shot of absinthe.
"Do you need a band aid?"
"I have an idea for a game. How about we stab each other?" He says, picking up the knife again.
"Here, have some more ketamine, it'll take the edge off." I say, throwing the bag over to him. He dumps it all out onto the bar, burying his nose in it, licking it up.
"Yee-haw!" He screams at me. His nose starts bleeding. I tap my nostril, the universal sign that something was wrong, but he doesn't seem to care.
"Can we have another round?" I say, motioning to the glasses. Barb pours one, but Jim sweeps them both away, they fly through the air, sound of the breaking glass makes someone jump. Jim point the knife at me.
"Any more games, funny boy?"
"Do you like rock, paper, scissors?" I say. I check my pockets for another cigarette, finding a bag of ketamine. I look at the empty bag on the bar. "Oops."
"What?!" Jim screams at me, leaning close, gritting his teeth.
"That was concentrated hydrochloric acid." I say. "I use it to pickle my steel."
He snorts, a jet of blood spraying down his clothes. He grips at the flesh of his face and starts screaming.
"Do you have any vinegar?" I ask Barb, as Jim collapses, screaming out blood on the concrete floor. After some quick discussion, I take a drink from Barb and throw it on Jim. Its milk.
"I'm going to need another milk, Barb."
"It’s only UHT." She says, pouring out another glass. I hold Jim.
"Snort this." I say, holding the glass against his philtrum. He snorts, sneezes, snorts again, drinking the milk through his burning nose. I decide to leave the bar. I drive the cherry red Sonata through the night, drunk, high, I switch the lights off and let the car roll down the road, picking up speed as it dips downhill between the trees. I use the steering wheel with my elbows as I dip the tip of the switchblade into the bag, snorting from it quickly, focusing on driving in the dark. Overhead the stars seem to rush away from me.
