Thursday 9 July 2015

The problem with Danny

Danny was a snake; slippery, cunning, clever. He was always around when there was trouble but somehow never seemed to be affected by it. He'd slither away from the epicentre of the problem unharmed while the shit flew around him. But what made it worse was that it was often Danny that caused the problem; he reneged on his promises, provoke arguments, cheated on women, and forgot to repay his loans but somehow the mud never stuck, people forgave, and forgot, gave last warning after last warning, but never carried out the threat. Danny had a get out of jail free card. He was immune to trouble.
He sat at the bar in his local smiling at his whisky, this was going to be his day. He'd just managed to convince Lew Mitchell to take another bet despite owing him a small fortune already, he'd persuaded Big Tony to pay in advance on a shipment of cigarettes that Danny knew would never arrive and the lovely Andrea was coming to meet him and that could only mean one thing, that the evening would end happily. He drained the glass and ordered another, handing the barman one of the crisp notes that Tony had given him.
'I said no fucking ice,' Danny said to the barman as he looked at the glass. He’d said no such thing, but that didn’t stop Danny stirring the pot.
'Sorry mate, let me get you another,' the barman was a big man, strong, slightly overweight, balding and bored. His large brown eyes betrayed his disappointment. He hadn't imagined himself being a barman in his mid forties, serving no-marks like Danny and he didn't care for spindly little snakes being rude when it was an honest mistake. He took the glass and prepared another drink.
'You fucking cretin, one job to do and you get it wrong,' this was Danny's speciality, turning a molehill into a mountain, winding up the big guy before putting his hands up in a gesture that said, hey what's the fuss all about
‘What was that?’ The barman barked.

‘I was just saying you’ve only got one job to do and you got it wrong,’ Danny smiled.
The barman put the new whisky down on the bar and turned his back, he started to count to ten, trying to control his temper.
'Don't I get change?' Danny said, he knew full well he'd got his change but was trying his luck.
The barman ignored him, still counting, slowly, methodically.
'Oi fatso, I was talking to you.'
The barman had got to 7 by this point. He stopped counting, looked at the slippery little fucker and let the red mist descend. He knitted his fingers together and cracked his knuckles before forming a fist with his right hand. A wide swinging punch connected with Danny's nose, a crack echoed around the bar, like thunder in the eye of the storm. Danny fell back falling off the stool and there was a second crack of thunder as the back of his head hit the tiled floor. It was this second blow that killed him. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head.
Amazingly no one saw anything, when the police asked questions everyone said Danny had lost balance and fell off the stool but no one could explain his broken nose, that was a mystery. 

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