2

"Christ, of all places, you picked this dump?"

I kind of enjoyed this bar. The open area of the bar consisted of the usual decor; The bar, stocked with the usual assortment of alcohol and a large white guy wearing nothing but blue jeans and a black leather vest who spent his offtime constantly polishing the glasses, bar stools each with a cut along the top cushion, rickety chairs and tables each with a cry for help carved into the seat, and the complimentary Wurlitzer jukebox stocked with the B-sides of every band you've ever known, complete with a bullseye on the top left-hand portion of the front glass so downtrodden men could come in, hit it, and have the jukebox come alive with music so they could pretend they were cool for the amount of time it him to realize nobody gave a fuck.

"Let's make this quick. I'm supposed to be 400 miles from here by tomorrow afternoon to counsel some other brainfucked idiot."

I sat down first, across from the bearded professional.

"The way I see it," he said, lighting a cigarette and then pointing it at me, "You got two choices. One, you could sell everything you own, take the money, put it into an account that only your goddamn kids can touch when they are older, and then steal a chrome cap gun from one of the many lovely fucking dollar stores around here, remove the orange tip, point it at a cop, and hope for the best," he said, exhaling.

That didn't sound good. Taking the orange cap off those shitty guns is a pain I would rather not endure. Again.

"Or," he said, taking out a worn frying pan, "I can take you out in the parking lot and hit you just hard enough on the head with this and knock you retarded. You'll still be alive, but you'll be able to collect monies from the government because you'll tell them you fell or tripped or walked into your bathroom door a little too fast."

I frowned. "Great, I'll still be alive," I said while accepting the unordered dish of food from a passing waitress.

"Yes," he said, grinning, "but you won't be able to function properly in society. At most, you'll be able to grunt and moan to communicate and you'll probably spend your days telling yourself how keen you are because you actually buttoned your fucking shirt correctly for that day."

I shook my head and ran my hand down my face, sighing. "And what good is that going to do?"

"Nobody can possibly accuse you of being an asshole, even if you are presently a recovering one."

I slid him the money.

With that, we stood up and headed for the door. Choosing a semi-lighted part of the parking lot, I took off my bandana and bent down slightly so he could get a clear shot.

"Okay, son." he said, taking a few practice swings. "This will only hurt for the rest of your life."

I stood there staring at the ground for what seemed like a minute when I slowly brought my head up to see him bent over with the frying pan, breathing heavily. He looked up at me and gave me a what-the-fuck look.

"Hey," I said. "When did you shave your beard?"

His eyes widened, face filled with failure.

"FUCK!" He said, throwing the pan at an early 80s conversion van. "That didn't do any good! You're in another world alright!" He began to pace back and forth, arms open, looking at the sky. "Just not your own!"

I stood there with my hands on my knees promising myself to find the asshole who thought up this shit up.

The man gathered the pan and cracked his neck. "I keep the money." he said, walking off. I nodded to him. Off he went to probably study his pan charts a little closer, leaving me in this technically new world, where nothing but that fucker's lack of a goddamn beard was different.