Lou's Place

A Story by FGeorge

This is the prologue to a story about Lucifer's bar.

Lou's Place

By: SF George

02/26/2015

This is a work of fiction any and all similarities to any person, living or dead, place, real or imagined, or idea is happenstance. The author holds ownership and all rights, including copy write, and any infringement of them may be met with legal action.

“I am not an alcoholic. I am not an amateur either. I figure I am well on my way to celebrity drunk. You know the type. The 'I'm-slightly-too-functional-to-be-properly-drunk', Drunk. Like me in pretty much every bar everywhere. We, they, sit there, here, night after night showing none of the ill effects of having imbibed copious amounts of expensive liquor the night before.

“Envious? Don't be. There really isn't anyone else like me.

“Hmm. You know I think you could call me one of a kind. That after me She broke the mold.

“You see I'm the guy who, after a few fingers of an aged single malt �" my drink of choice, will listen to your problems.

“I'm the confidant who who, after three or four more, will give you his opinions about your 'problems'

“The man who, with five or six drinks down, may be willing to solve them for you. For a price...

“Hypothetically. Let us say that one lat November evening you stumble into my bar- What? Oh yes I am the owner; that's why I never pay for drinks. Anyway, you stumble into my bar and order Vodka neat. The barkeep, Azeral, sits a glass on the bar in front of you; you quickly empty it ordering another before he has the chance to assist another patron.

“Two drinks quickly turn into three an as the bartender removes your empties, lean, unsteadily, toward the gentleman next to you and without preamble begin ranting about Men.

“Yes. Men. Not the most original of complaints if I do say so myself, but I'll listen. After all you are the customer.

“Another drink please Az. Would you like another? I'm buying. Excellent. Now where was I? Oh, men. We, they, me.... Men.

“'All men are users,' you begin. (Obviously those drinks are beginning to have an effect.) 'Scum. Hateful, lying, b******s. Cheating f***s.' Or at least your husband is.

“Ah there it is. The real root of the problem. The task at hand. The problem to solve.

“You go on to tell me...er I mean this stranger about the ready and able redheaded secretary your husband �" we'll call him Ryan �" is currently screwing. You describe impossible sex acts you've never seen but imagine with the vivid clarity only attainable by those who do not understand the word love.

“You berate your own body. Lauding this 'tramp's' perfect tits, her fuckable a*s and c**k sucking lips as if she were an oasis in the desert.

“Quickly three drinks become four, and as four turn into five the flames of your anger begin to flicker then fade. From anger to insecurity. The alcohol that fueled the release of your anger becomes a double edged sword; first feeding doubt then becoming self loathing. Your ranting quiets and for a while we sit in silence, until finally, somewhere around two in the morning, tears begin to fall.

“I'm no stranger to tears. That's not to say I enjoy them. They make me as uncomfortable as the next person. So I sit in silence. Sipping my scotch. Letting you cry yourself somewhat sober. You see it's at this point, with your pain still fresh, your ego wounded ,that I lean in.

“I could offer my condolences on your situation or to cover your next round. I could pass you the name of a great lawyer or call you a cab. I could even suggest turnabout being fair play and take you upstairs for toe curling sex. The type you would never be able to have with... what's-his-name. And you'd do it. You would do it with hunger in your eyes and lust on your skin. Trying to prove a failing marriage wasn't your fault.

“You would agree and afterward we would go our separate ways and that would, most likely, be that. But...

“What would happen if that stranger �" the one you've cried on and cursed at, the man you have shared drinks and pain with. What would happen if he suddenly turned, leaned in close, and offered you a choice?

“If, in a voice so silky it borders on erotic, he asked you how you would punish him? Her? Them? What do you need to make you whole? How heavy will is your pound of flesh?

“If that compatriot on your right, this confessor, this co conspirator asked you: What would you like to...No. What would you need to see happen to the 'Cheating B*****d' and 'his w***e'? What would you say?

“Perhaps you would wish them poverty after a long public divorce? One that showed the world exactly what kind of a husband he had been?

“Would you want to see them suffer from a horrible sexually transmitted disease? Something that leaves them scarred? Disfigured? A public freak show for your amusement?

“ Would you wish them heartache? Pain? Death? Something worse? How dark will midnight be when the only limit is living with it?

“Could you?

“Ha! No I can't read your mind, but you'll tell me. You'll want to. Perhaps even need to. You need me to tell you that wanting revenge, or justice, is not wrong. To remind you that the people you call family; the ones you love and trust the most, those people took advantage of you. That you have the right to desire vindication. A little tit for tat is all it really is. After all, when is your turn to be happy?

“And that's all I'm really offering you; a chance to be happy. So yeah, you'll tell me. And I will listen.

“I will listen as you debase yourself. As you sink deeper into depravity, the type denied to you by the 'evolution' of higher thought processes, your lizard brain awakens, shedding your remaining humanity with it. I will listen as you spin out fantasies, each a shade more twisted; a touch darker than the last. Your perfect revenge takes shape.

“I'll listen better than any man you have ever been with. Better than your best girlfriend. Better then any anonymous entity offering forgiveness for your sins. I will listen because I know rejection and the solitude of a forced lifestyle.

“Then, while we wait for your toes to uncurl �" you will just have to live with the wet panties until I can get you out of them �" I will wave Azrael over, and motion for another round.

“Your fingertips dance, post orgasmic heart still racing, as you reach for your glass. Az produces a small dark green bottle from beneath the bar and pours us each a double. I brush light brown hair from your shoulder, lean in and in a voice just above breathing I offer to make it happen.

“For a price.

“For a price I will make your every word a reality. I could do more. Less. Of course I could pretend this chance encounter never happened. The choice is yours and there is no need to decide right now. I'm not going anywhere; you're in no shape to drive.

“And the cost? How much should piece of mind cost? Dignity? Self respect? Priceless? If the cost was so small as to be insignificant.

“Would you agree?

“All it'll cost is a drop of blood. One drop. Just a pricked fingertip. Didn't even feel it. And you press it down here and their punishment is secured. Awaiting only your narrative. That's it. Do nothing more. I'll buy you another drink and we'll celebrate. What's a soul compared to a life reconciled?

“We will drink and I'll call you a cab or maybe I'll take you up to my place. After all, business is business, but pleasure...

“That's me at this point in space. I'm here just like usual. So stop by. Come on in. I'll buy you a drink or two and we can talk. We're open all day, everyday.

“My name is Lou. This is my place.

-end of prologue

Comments or suggestions �" Please send all correspondence to [email protected]. Please include “Lou's Place” in the subject line to avoid spam filters and I will reply as soon as possible. Thank you.

Notes

Azrael �" noun �" in Jewish and Islamic Angelology Azrael is the angel who separates the soul from the body at the moment of death. The Angel of Death.