literature

'The Dead Horse' pub

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"The Dead Horse"

In a seedy part of town was a shady pub called "The Dead Horse". Why it was called such was anyone's guess. And guess they did. Some clever person had decided it was a blurb from the owner's wife concerning their sex life.

No one dared tell the owner that though. He was a burly man, huge both in height and width. His beard and hair would have given Santa Claus a run for his money, if it weren't for the reddish brown colour and spots of half-chewed tobacco. The only thing on the man that was considered small, were the eyes. They shone dully in an unidentified colour most people just called murky. Even his voice was big. A booming, grating sound that the regulars swore would reach all the way to the fancy restaurant across town. This impressive figure answered only to "barman". He refused to tell his customers his name.

His wife was a whole different story. Her hair was always up, with golden curls cascading down her back. Her eyes were big, doe-like in their dark brown innocence. The lashes framing them were thick and dark, making the eyes stand out even more. She wasn't slender, but had a classic hourglass-shape that curved in just the right places. The playful smile she always wore with her summer dresses could melt the heart of the most hardened old man. Most of the customers had at some point tried to find out what a woman like her was doing with a man like him. She tittered when asked, winked confidingly and sashayed away.

The regular customers, because a place like "The Dead Horse" seldom had non-regular customers, looked like a part of the decor. There were shabby men, wearing dark brown jackets over their worn shirts and jeans, a few tired-looking women who used hours on one pint just so they wouldn't have to go home to their husbands and children and the odd couple drinking pint after pint before hitting the heavier stuff. Those more often than not had to be carried out by the owner.

No matter the weather outside, be it stormy or sunny, the inside of "The Dead Horse" was dank. The floor was old, wooden and creaked at the smallest movement. Years of chairs being moved out from tables, tables being moved around and wear from many, many shoes had wore down the lacquer so that the floor was now matt, scruffy wood. The walls had at some point been light beige, but now it resembled the dark grey colour of ash. The fireplace was in constant use. No matter the weather, season, day or night, a roaring fire was present in the hearth. Around Christmas time two stockings would be hanging from the old, cracked mantelpiece as the only decorations in the pub.

Several round tables filled the small room. Several mismatched chairs stood by the tables, or along an available part of the wall, ready to be brought out should one need it. Not that the place was ever filled. It was more a question of people swapping chairs from time to time to get some change in their life.

One of the reasons for the constant gloom in the pub was the thick air. Tobacco smoke wafted from nearly every occupied table, one old man even patted away on an old ornate pipe. The complete lack of regard for the chimney's cleanliness also added to the smoky atmosphere in the pub.

In front of the fireplace, on a shaggy carpet that may have been blue once, lay the pub's honourable mascot. Luckily, it wasn't a dead horse.

It was a cat.

Probably the oldest, grumpiest cat in existence. Its fur was brilliant white and shone in the firelight. It was, without doubt, the cleanest thing in the entire pub. The huge yellow eyes would either be closed in sleep, or glaring at anyone daring to be within its line of sight. It was common knowledge that the cat was vicious and slightly evil.

It answered to the name Mr Fluffies.

One sunny day, while Mrs Pipps was staring morosely into her pint at her usual table in a corner by the fireplace, the door opened and a very unlikely person entered.

He was tall, thin and wearing a suit. A man like this was no usual clientele in "The Dead Horse". First of; he was clean, and well-dressed. His light brown hair was carefully styled, and his face was clean-shaven. He was wearing a pair of expensive-looking designer glasses and a bright grin. His teeth sparkled.

He surveyed the room with that unnerving, sparkling grin and trotted off to the bar. He loudly ordered a Piña Colada, getting a blank look from the barman. Then he made the man a tumbler of whisky. The Suit's grin wavered a moment, before he got it back up, just as shiny as before. He paid for the drink and commandeered a seat at the bar.

He was sitting with his back to the bar, sipping his drink with his pinkie sticking out and watching the room. He had a long staring competition with Mr Fluffies, but finally lost to the bright yellow eyes. He ordered another whisky when he finished the first. His eyes followed the barman's wife through the room.

The man stayed for hours. The regulars eventually ignored him, like you would ignore a boisterous child in a bookstore.

Mrs Pipps eventually wandered home to her empty house, only to return the day after, as was her routine. The Suit came that day too. He ordered a whisky and sat at the bar, just as clean and shiny as the first day he appeared.

The third day was the same.

The fourth day, he came again. His grin wasn't quite as shiny as before, and Mrs Pipps thought she saw a hint of stubble on his chin. He ordered a whisky and sat down at the seat at the bar.

The seventh day, the stubble on his chin was clear to see and his expensive suit jacket had a stain on it. He took it off when he sat down. After an hour he removed his stylish tie too.

On the tenth day he wasn't wearing a tie, and he had replaced the suit jacket with a simple brown one. His hair was undone and his teeth had stopped shining. He accepted a cigarette from the grumpy old man sitting a few seats down the bar.

The fifteenth day he broke his glasses when he tried to stumble out of the bar.

The day after he had a new pair; they were solid, sensible, cheap-looking framed glasses.

The eighteenth day he was wearing jeans with his brown jacket, and now stained dress shirt. He ordered a pint of beer and sat down on the bar. His teeth weren't shiny at all, and his grin had dimmed. His fingers were stained yellow from the cigarettes he had smoked.

The twenty-second day he came to "The Dead Horse" he was looking dim and scruff, wearing jeans, a stained sweater with a brown jacket, like most of the regulars. They had by now learned to ignore him, like they did each other, which meant he was well on his way to becoming one of them.

It was what "The Dead Horse" did. You couldn't be clean and proper if you continued to come here. It would eventually swallow you and make you like its interior, people included.

Mr Fluffies purred, satisfied, by the fireplace.
I wrote this when bored. I had no plan, just followed the story. I had to end it here, or else it would have evolved into a story that demanded chapters.
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