OPERATION SUNRISE by GRIMLY WHETFOX

Chapter 4 - BAR NONE

***
"Always remember you're unique. Just like everyone else."
~ Anon

"The Story of the Two Wolves:
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.
He said, "My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all.
One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.
The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather:
'Which wolf wins?'
The old Cherokee simply replied,
'The one you feed.'"
~ Cherokee proverb

***

He sat right at the bar, it made things quicker, and took a final long slug from the beer, tasting the fresh foam at the bottom of the glass, dropping it quickly to the bar and looking round. The barmaid raised an eyebrow and commented that he'd better not drink them all like that, or he'd be broke and she'd beexhausted. He took that to mean she wouldn't throw out a paying customer, even if he got a bit drunk, and settled further into a hunched posture on a tatty stool. The surface of the bar was sticky, coating his forearms in an unknown substance with that familiar pub stench, stale alcohol and filth. He barely cared, finishing his second beer in the same manner he had drunk the first, belching and raising a look to the bargirl again. She used sense and brought three more at once, saying he must pay for all five before he goes any further.

"Good thinking," he said, and for the first time took her in his gaze properly, quickly scanning her up and down in the familiar way. As usual it yielded too much information. As usual she was sad. But not too sad though. Lucky her. Wonder why? And she was pretty too. Nice eyes. Maybe...? Nah, probably not. Maybe though, with a few more of these beers...

She had quickly dropped his gaze when he had looked up, his stare engulfing her, and having no one else in the pub to serve, had nervously picked up the TV remote and was flicking channels on the flatscreen behind the bar. She left it on some advertisements, which instantly demoted her in his mind; who chooses to watch adverts for god's sake, when even most shows are just thinly disguised adverts for products... or mindsets... Agenda, agenda, agenda. Proper ganda, as he always called it. Not just yer standard, average kind of ganda. No cheap stuff round here.

The on the hour news came on the screen, and he wondered if she had known this or if the short bulletin was between her and her favourite soap or sitcom. Still, he decided to see what the TV station had to say about the world, through its sanitised and compromised vision, and then leave after these beers, one short bulletin was all he could take without feeling ill he suspected. It had been months since he had watched anything on the screens. The content simply disgusted him.

He knew from just hearing the headlines he should not watch. The top story was the trial of a recently apprehended terrorist, and all the subsequent stories were spin-offs and variations on the terrorism theme, and then a new vaccine. What a nice mix. "And here's Tom with the weather." He grimaced and finished the majority of another beer in one swallow, wiping his mouth and reaching for the next. Chug, chug, chug. Happy daze. He winced at the cynicism, and then again at the TV.

The reporter outside the court house repeated what he had been told to say, handing over to another presenter with a special report on the suspect's background, and his alleged connections to the terrorism core that now ran through all nations "like a cancer," the well-paid 'journalist' intoned. Then the court reporter appeared again, promising more information as and when it happened and handed back to the studio with a very serious air about him. At the bar the final beer went down in one.

"Can you turn that off please? I don't like it."

The barmaid looked around from the screen, a confused expression on her face. Clearly she thought the whole matter to be terribly important.

"It's just lies, I can't take it. Please, turn it off,"

The beers had acted quickly, loosening his tongue, and he cursed himself internally, always saying too much. But she was already reaching for the remote and clicked the sound down a few notches, standing and turning to face him from behind the bar.

"You want it all the way off?" she asked, lowering her jaw to her chest a little and looking at him from under a furrowed brow. He nodded, and she pointed her wrist behind her at the screen, clicking the button and turning it blank, without looking away from him.

"What do you mean it's just lies?" she asked slowly, her eyes fixed on his face, scanning him herself in her own way he supposed. She lowered her hand and placed the remote on the bar next to him. For a moment there was almost complete silence in the pub, just the slight sound of traffic from outside, and then one of the small fridges behind her legs clicked and whirred, cooling its contents, breaking the silence, and he spoke.

"The man they have in the dock has been set up. A patsy. As usual. The whole thing is a psychological operation on the public, a military exercise in fear. The real terrorists realise it helps the agenda of the enemy if innocents are hurt. Why would they sabotage their cause in the eyes of the decent people of the world? It doesn't make any sense. Do you see what I mean?"

She shook her head, slowly. As she drew breath to speak he cut her off.

"Get me another beer and I'll explain." He half smiled at her, looking to distract her, and it zapped, flashing back at him, why so sad mister? That sarcastic internal laugh rose up in him, and he gave a nod toward the fabric. The same thought he had about the bargirl the bargirl thought about him. Then it came again, a flash of the zahir, a flash of the thought of HER in his mind and the feeling rose in his throat, but he pushed it away, recoiling at the power of the emotion. Please fuck off out of my head, you are not welcome. Yeah, it would definitely be better to talk to someone who doesn't remind him so much of her, to be sure, to be sure. But doesn't every girl, every body, every thing remind him of her? Every fucking song on the radio? So what does it matter? At least the barmaid was blondish, lighter haired anyway, and taller. That was a start. The thoughts gave an electrical shiver up his spine, and he felt his scalp tighten and tingle. With an exhale he tried to relax and dissipate the feeling. It didn't work.
She laid another beer in front of him and put her hand to her side, looking over the bar taps at him, a look
of confusion and trepidation on her face.

"What's wrong with your eyes?" she said, and then suddenly felt like biting her tongue with the bluntness of the question. "I mean," she stumbled on, "are you on something? My boss is in the back office and I would get hell for serving you if you're... high?" She trailed off, knowing she was digging herself deeper, wondering what was happening, she felt odd, and this guy didn't look like that when he sat down five minutes ago, in fact as she looked at him, his pupils like vast, vibrating black pools of light, she saw his face tangibly shift, his features flickering, and she suddenly realised he must have drugged her too.... But how? She wasn't drinking anything... He hadn't had the chance...

"What the fuck is happening?" she gasped, losing the strength in her legs and leaning back against the small fridges behind her, feeling her chest tighten and a surge of fear deep in the pit of her stomach.

"It's ok," he said, "it's my fault. I should have kept my mouth shut."

There was something about the sound of his voice, deep, warm, and as her eyes met his she jolted, as if the fridges she rested against had been electrified, by a short circuit or perhaps a particularly cruel boss, one with a torture fetish for innocent young barmaids. He found himself snickering at the thought under his breath, and realising that that emotion was always helpful, he pushed it over the bar to the girl, aiming at the centre of her chest, willing her to feel the laughter. Instantly she relaxed slightly, and steadied herself behind the beer taps, using the brand he was drinking to support her weight. He read the name from the logo on the tap above her hand and drained the glass in one fluid movement.

"I should go," he said, turning to leave. "I'm sorry."

"Wait," she stumbled over the word, still shaken by what was appening. "What do you mean it's your fault? Did you spike me or something? What's going on?"

"It's ok, it's nothing like that. You are just a little sensitive, that's all. We are all transmitters and receivers. Of frequencies, of resonant tones. Everything is vibration, all matter and non matter, density is
relative.... " He realised this would make no sense to her, and actually it made very little sense to him, so
he stopped, swallowed, and tried again.

"You are just picking up some of what I am feeling, try not to worry about it. I should go."

"No.... wait..." She didn't want him to go. she was sure Of that. Something about this man... something about his eyes. He wasn't lying. She spoke again, holding his gaze, watching the edge of his massive pupils vibrate, hypnotic, beautiful...

"What do you mean, I'm picking up what you are feeling? That's not possible... Not like this, anyway..."

"I'm afraid it is, my dear, I am afraid it is."

He stopped, realising what was happening, he'd been pulled in again, and blanched, again turning to leave, regretting ever entering the bar, regretting ever leaving his bed. Fuck. Got to get a handle on this. Got to try to control it.

"Wait!" she said again, a little desperation in her voice as she saw him move to leave. "Wait, please, what's your name? Don't go..." She realised she was pleading slightly, but she didn't care. His eyes... He turned back to face her from half way to the door, and his face had changed again, it was harder, sterner, more severe.

"Never tell anyone your name, my dear. Once they have your true name they can control you outright. Maybe that's even what is happening to me, I don't know. I wouldn't like to guess. But..." He hesitated, realising that he was being brought in again, dragging him back each time. The power. It was addictive. Nope, he couldn't take it right now. Not now. He spoke one final sentence. "Just never tell anyone your name."

And with that he spun deftly on his heels and walked out, clenching his teeth and squinting as his dilated pupils adjusted to the bright sunlight. Fuck. Now he needed to find another bar.

The bright afternoon light was too much for his eyes to take, and he furrowed his brow against it, against the pain. This sucked. He walked up the street a little and looked across to another bar, and realised which one it was, and sighed, deciding on the place next door to it. Not that pub, he thought to himself. Not that one mate. He stepped out across the road, still blinded by the daylight, alcohol coursing through his synapses, unaware of the vehicle rapidly approaching, unaware of the danger. The breaks screeched to a halt and he turned his head in the last microsecond, gauging the speed of the car, the direction, alerted by the noise, the squeal of the breaks. As the bumper reached where his legs were he pushed lightly with his feet, and somehow, somehow he was then standing next to the car, next to the opening window of the driver's door, looking down at the driver's face, wondering what just happened, what was going on? Did he just miss some time? How drunk was he from six chugged beers?

"Whit the fuck dae ya think yer dain?" said the driver to him, anger and something else, something else in the tone of his voice. This could be trouble. The car was full of big guys, and they were all staring at him with malice, with intent, and not a nice intent. Whoops. Try not to anger the natives. They are a fierce bunch.

"I'm sorry, pal, I didn't see you there." He tried to sound like them. It wasn't very convincing.

"Ah never touched the break!" said the driver, aggression in his eyes, his hand shaking on the steering wheel slightly. "Ah never touched the fucking break!"

The boy misunderstood the drivers expression, and his aggression. He thought he could be in grief here, walking in front of a car filled with these folk, you might be better off getting hit by the car. If they chose to make an example of him it wouldn't matter that they were in a busy town centre street in the middle of a bright afternoon, he was paste. Folks like this didn't have much thought of repercussions. Still, show no fear, show no pain. The only way out is through in these situations. Fight or flight. Got to sound confident.

"I'm sorry, pal, I didn't see you." He tried to say it more firmly. It was true, after all. He hadn't. He honestly hadn't seen the car.

The driver was looking at him with confusion, a harsh, confused malice the boy did not fully understand. The boy was half cut and exhausted. In the months since that phone call he had hardly slept, hardly slept at all. No matter how much dope he smoked or how much he drank the dreams would come, sharp, metallic, and he would wake, damp with sweat, back in his small, dark bedroom, with a tingling sense of dread, a hangover from the constant, twitching nightmares that plagued his unconsciousness, swamping his disoriented waking mind, and he would sigh, roll over, and lie there, staring at the ceiling, willing it all to go away, willing himself to forget. Not a good way to appear in control, to only get three hours sleep a night. Not a good way to actually be in control, either. If the guys on the car wanted to do anything they would be on him in a moment. He didn't have the energy to even try and run.

"But Ah never fuckin' touched the break!" the driver repeated, his eyes locked with the boy's, staring, searching. For a tiny second the boy thought he saw a look of fear in the man's eyes. What the fuck is going on here? Let's be gone.

"I'm sorry, pal, I just didn't see you." Is there an echo around here?

The man in the passenger seat had had enough, angered at the interruption, angered at the stupid bastard that walked out in front of their car, and then really fucking angered by his cheeky response. I'm sorry, indeed. Who did this cunt think he was?

"C'mon tae fuck." He tapped the driver on the shoulder, impatiently. Let's be gone, his look said, or let's sort this cunt out and then be gone. Busy busy busy.

"But Ah never fucking breaked!" the driver said, his head spinning back from looking at his passenger to looking at the boy, fear and confusion now apparent on his weathered face. The rest of the men in the car all looked at the boy too, with what appeared to be menace but could well have been confusion, or at least the way these men expressed confusion, by immediately turning it into menace. The boy began to realise what was happening. But that's not possible. He looked around the men in the car and then back down to the driver, a tiny glint of cynical laughter in his eyes. This time when he spoke it was quietly, paced, but forceful, the tiny light glinting away, tenaciously.

"I'm sorry, pal, I just didn't see you."

And the driver balked, a shudder running down his arms an back, as if he was suddenly cold, or somehow being mildly electrocuted. His eyes dropped from the boys and he turned back to the road, pushing the accelerator. The boy didn't hear exactly what he said as he drove away, but he didn't really need to, he had heard it before, he got the gist.

"Ah never fuckin' touched the break! Ah never even fucking touched it!"

The boy turned in the middle of the street and continued his course to the other bar he had picked, the bar next to the one he wouldn't go to. What just happened there? That was weird.

Fuck it, he thought. I'll add it to the fucking list.

To be continued....