The Barfly Chronicle #2

[psuedojesus]

Ever go out with only a hundred dollars, and wake up the next morning with two hundred, not remembering where you got it? Most people would assume they are lucky for it; I assume it is misfortune. Why? I believe there are only two ways you can double your money after a night bar: you did something you don't and never want to remember, or you won it off of someone who makes sure you never forget.
Since I didn't remember, and I still had all my body parts, the first situation seemed more likely. My talents aren't well known, but after a bit of poking around, and several phone calls, it came all came back to me, and I kicked myself for being so stupid.
The night had seemed normal to start. Bar was pretty much empty, save for me, the bartender, and a couple of pool players. Nothing really to pick up on, but it's nights like these that I wish I couldn't. Less people to get a vibe from means clearer reads, and I didn't need to know that one of the pool players was cheating on his girl, or that the bartender wanted to fuck that same pool player.
The guy walked in, barely noticed by anyone, except for me, and it was pretty clear he was in bad shape. He was wearing what I assumed was a suit, but with multiple tears in the jacket, the tie missing, and what I was hoping was dirt or mud covering every bare each of his pants, it was still a bit hard to tell. He ordered a beer, and upon arrival of it reached into his front pocket to reveal several high denomination bills. He paid, and sat there, drinking slowly.
"What the fuck do you want?" His tone was one of paranoia, not annoyance. I couldn't help but stare, and his definite feeling of fear was reeking from him.
"I was just wondering what happened to you." Play it cool, and help the guy calm down.
"I just got mugged out in the parking lot. Two guys, no weapons. They just picked me up, and started beating me down. They didn't get a dime from me, but I can't go back out again until they leave." Interesting. I changed my focus to outside the bar, and picked up two, very aggressive signals. Not exactly people I want to mess with, but considering what this guy looked like, it was worth a shot.
"How much to get rid of them?" He stared me down for a second, and then spoke.
"A hundred a piece, but I don't want them dead or anything, just gone."
"Deal." I finished my drink, and walked outside, finding them only fifty feet from the door.
Now, when you have a talent like mine, you learn to use it for its advantages. These guys were big, and obviously tough, but what they have in strength they lack in skill. When the first one decided to swing at me as I approached, I ducked, then hit him with an upper cut. When the other tried to grab me by the shoulders, I stepped aside and elbowed him in the gut. When they try to make a move, I already know it's coming, if you can't tell already.
So I was finished after ten minutes, and they were crying and running. It wasn't necessarily easy, but I've never had a fight I've lost out of the need for better reflexes, just the need for more strength. I walked back into the bar, and found the gentleman with the destroyed suit. He paid me, and then walked out.
"Thanks." Last thing he said, and probably the last time I'll see him, considering he doesn't belong in this neighborhood.
Now you must be asking what the problem with all this is. Well, when you wake up with two hundred dollars and the television on with a news story about a businessman who was found dead in an alley carrying upwards of six hundred dollars, you worry.
It's like shooting a bear: the first few are only going to make him angry.