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ACT ONE

He was small, a Japanese Napoleon. His pal had a bald patch like a monk. The Japanese was on the voice treadmill, the monk was silent, listening, like a vow.  Expensive scotch was ordered, Napoleon asked to see the bottle. I left it there. And forgot about it. They went to the jukebox and loaded it up with heavy metal, music not to listen to at 1.30am. I yelled last call. And remembered how much I hated darkness. 

ACT TWO

The three assholes had been drinking for hours, on their talk shit horses, passing through the barscape shooting bullshit bullets at woman and man. They roped up at the bar rail. The forgotten bottle of scotch lay in view. They poured it into the absent Napoleon's glass, and swallowed. The bald monk returned to his seat and noticed the violation of his pal's tumbler. I appeared. It was late. All I wanted was to get from A to B as easily as possible. It was past last call. I told the three assholes to finish, and ride out of town. One of them pulled an attitude. I bowed and said Hare Krishna. Napoleon returned. He wanted to fight, he was from New York, he feared no one above five foot two. Forget it, I said. They're leaving. Put your arm back in your jacket but he didn't get it. I punched the Empire State building once, he said. The silent monk looked blankly into his whisky.

 ACT THREE

She had been sitting in the smoking room, breathing fire into her cell phone. She was tall and possessed an Irish name and an Irish face, pretty, mad.The three assholes were out on the street hopefully being robbed. She plonked herself down next to Napoleon. His hand slipped from his jacket, and found her ass. The monk got the message and split for his cell. I was busy wiping tables. I looked over. She reached down and pulled up her blouse. I saw the top of her black panties. She had a nice ass. Her hand moved to the right and pulled out a small knife from a hidden sheath. I feared for Napoleon's balls if he continued with his attempted conquest. Good on ya girl, I thought.

Two o'clock struck. They were last to go. She grabbed my arm. Remember you saw me leave with him, she said. I have a bottle of bourbon at home, he mentioned. They walked down the street, a female skyscraper making shadows over a small hungry man. I looked in the newspaper the following day but there was no report of a Napoleon having met his Waterloo.