“Life can really piss you off at times. Sometimes, when you’re different, life plays second fiddle to survival.”

It was a spacious bar, brick-walled, and complete with wooden beams, both painted black. The walls were lined with the heads of many different animals, both from Earth and from space. His head leaned on the wall, not far from the typical moose head. Above the next booth was the head of an elephant. The other two booths were decorated with a head of a Martian, and the head of an Ixqu; a race of trans-Plutonian travellers who had almost been completely wiped out. Both Martian and Ixqan had the typical red skin of the Close-Alien-Races, and had large bulging eyes typical of a Humanoid-Alien-Mammal. The eyes were similar in design to those of the common fly, with numerous parts, each hexagonal. Each hexagon was a distinct portion of the eye, with its own lens and retina, which allowed the creature a greater range of sight. The mouths were the only real difference between the two aliens; the Martian had a thin slit that concealed sharp fangs for the break-up of the insect matter that they consumed on an hourly basis, while the Ixqan had a large beak, thin like a heron’s, which was used for plucking plankton and krill from the oases on the majority of satellites in the Solar System.
The bar was run by a Golem-like creature, made almost completely out of sand and granite, with almost skeletal fingers composed of the igneous rock. The sand was compacted around the rock in a way that made it solid or fluid when necessary. The silicon dioxide also acted as a replacement for cartilage, gathering around joints and preventing wear on the granite bones. This allowed for the Golem to have complete movement despite his state of matter.
This Golem was currently working the taps, filling the patrons’ pint glasses with the alcoholic beverages that provided the only logical reason for them to even be in this particular establishment. Despite the fact that it was only ten pm, well into the boom period of the typical tavern, there were no people present. Judging by the flickering of the single light bulb above, and the fact that it was a filament lamp, it seemed likely that this number of patrons was normal, or even high for the bar.
Despite this, the Golem had insisted upon keeping the only employee that he had ever had. The fact that she had kept the job was quite probably down to a single thing. Or perhaps more accurately, two things; her breasts. It wasn’t that they were large; nobody was saying that – whispering maybe – but they were made to seem larger by the clothes that she wore, that fitted snugly about her barely material waist. She was rumoured to have originated from an Ixqan tribe, but this was something probably heard on the grapevine, or read in The Sun. So, it was about as believable as if it had come from the crocodile who asked for a kiss from the beautiful maiden so that he might be transformed back into the prince. Rumours about talking crocodiles had become commonplace in folklore, and many stories had been told. And many analogies had been made. It turned out that crocodiles are habitual liars; he was a lawyer rather than a prince.
She trotted past the Golem, taking a dirty cloth from the pile and dunking it in the even dirtier water of the sink. She took it out, and started wiping the mirror. If she hadn’t dusted away the wall of cobwebs, he doubted he would have known that it was a mirror; the amount of grime and silk providing an effective camouflage among the dust atop the long-empty scotch and gin bottles on the back shelf. The dirt fell onto the shelf, gathering between each bottle. When the mirror could actually be viewed as an object of glass – not a mirror, just something that resembled glass – she gave up, moving to the sink to start washing up the pint glasses that were so rarely used.
The Golem sidled over, a wry smile spread across his stony face. It was a face of cheek, or perhaps one that appeared as a result of some painful friction between two parts of his body. Either way, he approached his barmaid, gesturing to the figure beneath the moose head, and whispering into her ear. This figure returned the bartender’s wry smile, or interpreted it as a wry smile and returned it. The Golem, however, had other things to do. He reached across the barmaid for a glass, absent-mindedly tipping a portion of his silicon dioxide skin into the valley of her breasts. He withdrew the hand, strolling away looking quite satisfied, presumably at the sand, although it might have been down to him finally relieving the friction pains that he had previously suffered.
The state of the Golem should be explained. Not as the traditional Golems of the Hebrews, the granite and silicon dioxide Golem was merely an evolutionary quirk, brought on by a mixture of cross-breeding and madcap experiments. They were often described as the first robots, their movements being controlled by several stone gears in the head, and some nerve tissue that had had its electronic structure reconfigured. Convicts had donated parts of their tissue for the creation, and as such, personality traits often remained. This Golem was an obvious example of this error. Due to the electronic reconfiguration of the nerve tissue, is was part silicon dioxide, and as such merged in with the remainder of the skin but had, in the words of an old cliché, a mind of its own. He had obviously put it to good use.
So while a part of the Golem’s brain was subtly fondling the barmaid’s breasts, the figure beneath the moose head clicked his fingers, summoning a blade of ice into his hand. After several seconds, it dissolved again. He sighed, before staring into his glass of beer, freezing the surface of the liquid momentarily, before allowing the crystals of alcohol to return to their liquid state. He took a deep breath, before downing the remainder of his newly chilled beer.
The Golem obviously did not have the mental capacity to improvise an action with his newly acquired glass, and so he set it down on the surface. Almost immediately, a figure appeared in the seat by the glass, and asked for a drink.
If the Golem had had eyelids he would have blinked. Of he had had eyes he would have rubbed them repeatedly. If he had had a jaw bone it would have hung agape. In the end, his only response was to demand how the figure had entered the bar. Especially with the bouncer outside.
At the commotion, the figure beneath the moose head looked up, his eyes resting upon the new patron. The first impression was that he didn’t belong in such a down-market establishment; he wore a perfectly tailored suit; jet black, complete with an equally black shirt and a dark grey tie. He wore what might be called loafers, but in the end just looked like expensive shoes.
To the Golem’s response, he coolly replied, “What bouncer?”
The Golem rushed outside, returning moments later with what could be taken as a look of astonishment, or that he had overfilled his mouth. The sand that dripped down over the partings disguised what was happening within the mouth, and so he might well have had his mouth overfilled. The sand could equally be taken in many different ways. He might have been losing his hair, or had neglected to wipe away the mucus after a particularly violent sneeze, but due to the response of the guy in the suit, he had presumably lost a bouncer, and was crying uncontrollably.
“Don’t worry,” the suit murmured, “You can get yourself a new bouncer.”
“He was my brother,” the Golem stammered.
“Well I am sorry, but I really need you to do something for me.”
“What is it?”
“Would you mind… pissing off?”
Despite the family grievance and the bluntness of the statement, the Golem did piss off, returning behind the bar. He returned to his place by the pretty barmaid, whispering into her ear something about leaving the hellhole behind for the night, and getting a drink. She replied, “I’m not sure I’m ready for love yet…”
“I never said anything about love. I’m just feeling kinda low at the moment.”
They left together, the open door revealing a pile of sand and other similar particles upon the metallic surface of the pavement.
The figure beneath the moose head stood, dusting down his trench-coat.
“I though I recognised that voice,” he hissed, a new icicle clenched in his fist.
“I’m sure you did. It’s been a long time…”
“Not long enough. It’s only been ten years.”
“I love you too. Stephen… Brother.”
“You are not my brother, Edwin. We are nothing alike,” Stephen replied, his voice as cold as the icicle clenched in his fist.
“We are everything alike. We think exactly the same way.”
“We never thought the same way.”
“Oh really?” Edwin demanded.
The light flashed again.
“Yes,” Stephen protested.
The one in the suit pulled up his sleeve to reveal the icicle concealed within his hand. “Now show me your hand,” he muttered.
The guy in the trench coat showed his brother the icicle that he had held, before dropping it to the floor.
“Exactly,” Edwin concluded.
“So what have you been doing for the past decade?”
“Not much, it must be said. I founded a business.”
“It obviously didn’t go too well, if you’re drinking in here,” Stephen commented somewhat mockingly.
“The business is thriving. Unfortunately, my part of it is not.”
“I really feel for you,” he replied sarcastically.
“No you don’t. You never felt for me. Ice cold,” Edwin countered sarcastically.
“So why are you here?”
“I’ve got some loose ends to tie up. I need something from you?”
“What?”
“Nothing important. And I thought you would ask about why I need to tie up loose ends.”
“Well I haven’t,” Stephen explained, somewhat unnecessarily.
“So true.”
“Which company would this be?”
“It’s not something I want to worry you with.”
“So why tell me?”
“I need to mention it for it to fit into the story.”
“Story?”
“Why I am here,” Edwin explained.
“Why are you here?”
“You’ll find out in good time.”
“You always spoke so cryptically.”
“I did. Basically, someone bought out all my shares in the company, but it turns out I’d been cheated. I got bugger all. I started that company with my own flesh and blood. Now look at it. I’ll spell it out so even you can understand it. I’m looking for vengeance.”
“So why are you here?”
“Does the name Sergio mean anything to you?” asked Edwin.
“Why?”
“I don’t need an answer. I know it from your face. You showed that flash of guilt. Like when you stepped on my pet spider.”
Stephen hissed, “How did you…?”
“I have my ways. I have known for all this time. But about Sergio. I know what you did. I know what I have to do.”
“You do?” Stephen muttered, rubbing his fingers with his thumb.
“I am sure that you have heard of the company that I work for.”
“I doubt it.”
“They have a slogan,” Edwin offered.
“I’m sure they do,” Stephen countered.
The light flickered off momentarily.
“Everybody has heard this slogan.”
“Very well.”
“Well… I must explain that I never liked the slogan. I didn’t choose it. It was apparently apt.”
“Don’t worry; I believe you.” Stephen’s voice was emotionless. He didn’t care.
“I’m sure you do.”
“I do.” Stephen spoke without emotion again.
“Here, I can’t bring myself to do it.”
“Why? And what?” Stephen had spoken quicker this time, his voice at a slightly higher pitch than before.
“I have something I need to do.”
“Then make this quick.”
“I’m trying.”
“Well, if you must, hurry up.”
“Okay, here’s my business card.”
“Thank you.”
“It is a true sentiment. You might want to look at it. I believe in fair warnings,” Edwin replied cryptically. The light dimmed, but stayed alight.
“Really?”
He still hadn’t looked at the card.
“Yes, I want revenge on Sergio. I want to retain what was mine. There is a tournament coming up. That’s the best way to get to him.”
“Well, I wish you the best of luck.”
“Thank you. Are you going to look at the card?”
“Of course.”
He flicked the card over it see its sleek black surface.
On the back, emblazoned in metallic style block style capitals, were the words ‘Damage’ and ‘Inc.’
The light flashed off.
A movement could be heard by both men as Stephen flipped the card over.
Edwin had produced another icicle within his sleeve.
The light returned, and he read the card aloud.
It was in quotation marks…
The text was in a decorative red…
Similar to blood…
“Dying time is here.”
As he registered the last word, the icicle had impaled Stephen’s neck.