Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,7

you, they may look identical on the surface, but once you get underneath it’s like shagging a split personality.”

Adam looked momentary solemn. “Never mind both,” he said with a weighted sigh into his glass. “I’d be happy with either of them.”

Del and Michael laughed boisterously at their friend who wore a cheeky smile.

“We need to get you laid,” Michael told him.

“Agreed,” Del toned in. “Sick of your fucking moping. Would you be happy with a prostitute?”

Adam looked offended. “I ain’t paying for it.”

Michael sighed. “Then I’ll fucking pay for it.”

He shook his head. “There’s something not right about paying for sex.”

“Fuck it,” Michael said with a shake of his disagreeing head. “It’s a service. They’re the receptacle and you have something you need to empty.”

“Nice image mate,” Del said.

The three men laughed together and then turned around on their stools, facing away from the bar where an elderly bartender had just finished pouring their drinks.

Michael’s stare was immediately attracted to the hen party. He caught flirtatious glances from a couple of the drunken women. One he deemed too old, an unhappily married woman looking for a drunken fling. The other, in her mid-thirties, was better looking, but too drunk. He had no problems with drunk women but there was a line and it looked like she was about to throw up on it.

He turned his attention to the pool table where the group of men were still enjoying their game; all of them were silently watching the smallest of the group who was eyeing up a long shot on the black.

They were all dressed in tight fitting leather jackets -- strewn with cheap patches and emblems -- that struggled to engulf their large frames. They were all bigger than Michael; bigger than his friends. They looked like they wouldn’t move if asked, they probably wouldn’t have moved if someone drove a car through them.

With a sly smile tweaking the corners of his mouth Michael asked, “Fancy a game of pool?”

Del snapped a short and mocking laugh. “You seen those guys?” he said, appalled at the suggestion. “They’ll break our fucking necks just for asking.”

Michael shrugged off the comment and jumped down. “We’ll be fine,” he declared confidently. “Come on.”

Del and Adam followed apprehensively behind their friend as he strode towards the table.

The small man had sunk the black to equal quantities of applause and distaste. He was receiving a mixture of curses and high-fives from his friends when Michael interrupted them.

He stood in front of the table, waited until he had everyone’s attention and then addressed the biggest man there: a bearded man made purely of muscle and fat, with sweat patches staining his tee-shirt and tattoos colouring his bulbous arms.

“You guys finishing any time soon?” Michael asked him.

The big man looked Michael up and down derisively. He sucked in his protruding stomach -- concealed under a stretched, sweat stained tee-shirt and angled by the flaps of his sleeveless jacket -- and shifted forward, hugging the floor with his heavy boots.

“Fuck off kid,” he spat.

Inches away from the big man Michael felt like he was choking on his odour, a morbid concoction of sweat, tobacco and beer. Despite the smell he shifted forward until he could feel the moistened touch of the biker’s stomach against his own.

“Kid?” Michael said, smiling wryly. “Just because I’m smaller than you doesn’t make me younger.” He paused to reciprocate a curious cross-examination. “Although judging by those wrinkled biceps of yours, I probably am.”

There was a wave of hushed silence through the group as everyone took a sharp intake of breath.

Del mumbled apathetically from behind his friend, “Here we go again,” and the silence erupted into chaos.

The big man swung for Michael but he saw the monstrous arm working its way backwards long before it had time to connect. He ducked out of the way, feeling a rush of air dust his nose as the thick fist swept by. The big man toppled with the force of his own missed-swing, just managing to save himself from hitting the floor.

The youngster who had potted the black to win the game moved at Michael with a pool cue in his hand and a determined grimace on his face. He drifted around his tumbling friend and swung the cue at Michael, who threw his hands into its arcing flight to protect himself. The cue smacked his palms with a dull sucking-sound, slapping a vicious whip against the flesh. He ignored the burn in his palms, closed his hands