Play It Again

This story contains violence, profanity, and death

"Play It Again"

It goes like this: I down a shot of rye. It’s cheap shit, and it burns like hell all the way down my throat. It nestles in the pit of my stomach, embers crackling heat long after the flames are extinguished on my tongue. I slap a five on the bar and motion to the bartender. He’s a burly fuck with a bulldog-face and forearms the size of ma’s famous Easter hams. We don’t exchange words, the barkeep and me. He knows what I want and gives it to me, splashing another liberal pour of rye into my glass and taking my bill as he shuffles down to the next sad sack. Me? I lift the shot, raise it high like I’m making a silent toast to no one about nothing, then down the fire once more. 

The joint, McGillivray’s, ain’t exactly jumping. Then again, it’s just past noon on a Tuesday. You got to be serious about your booze to be caught in a place like this at a time like that. Along with me and the bulldog bartender, I count two at the bar, and three more seated at tables. All men, north of forty but south of sixty, none more remarkable than the other. 

There’s some classic rock blaring over the tinny loudspeakers. I know the tune, but not the words. And I’ll be damned if I can remember who sings it. A purple-gray haze circles around the place. Smoking ain’t allowed, but that memo doesn’t seem to have reached anybody here at Mickey G’s. 

After a spell, bulldog-face ambles his way back over to me with the bottle of rye. He motions it towards me, but I cover the top of the glass with my hand. I’m good for now. Again, we don’t bother with words. We’ve perfected our own rudimentary sign language and that’s good enough. He wanders away, but he’ll be back. Maybe I’ll be ready for another swig when he comes. Maybe not. 

I slide my stool back to climb down and it makes a hell of a racket, scraping and squeaking across the dirty subway tile floor. I imagine that floor once had aspirations of being black and white, but it abandoned all hope of white long ago. The other day drinkers, all hope abandoners in their own right, look up from their glasses at the noise, as if it’s any of their fucking business. I give a dismissive half-shrug and they go back to their drinks. 

The bathroom in McGillivray’s is across the room from the bar, down a narrow hallway where a neon beer sign on life support flickers, sputters, and buzzes like one of those blue light bug zappers. The hallway flashes like the entrance to the world’s shittiest amusement park ride. Mr. Turd’s Wild Ride, I chortle. 

Reaching the bathroom, I push the flimsy particle board door open with my foot and head in. The bathroom is inexplicably unisex, and God help the woman who can’t hold it until she gets home. Pity the man, too, for that matter. There are no winners when playing restroom roulette here. 

The bathroom looks like a crime scene, the only thing missing is yellow tape and the chalk outline of a dead body. Overhead, a squadron of flies zoom around the exposed yellow light bulb, one of the old fluorescent jobbies, not one of those fancy energy efficient ones. The floor, also yellow, has a permanent tackiness, so it takes an effort and emits a sucking noise every time I put one foot in front of the other. Sounds like I got suction cups on my shoes. Even though it’s early and the bar ain’t crowded, the metal trash can is overflowing with balled-up paper towels. The towel dispenser, though, is empty. 

There’s two urinals, both with ice dumped in them, one with a hand scrawled “out of order’‘ sign in it that patrons seem to have used as target practice. The sticky floor suggests that there aren’t many sharpshooters among this bar’s clientele. Beyond the pissers, there’s two stalls. The door is missing from the first one and it looks like the last shitter was so proud of their efforts that they left it behind for others to admire. I gaze in the stall and nod. Impressive work. Credit where it’s due. The other stall has both a door and a toilet not already populated by somebody else’s deposit. I make my way into that stall and am not at all surprised to see the latch broken beyond repair. Beggars and choosers and all that shit, I think to myself. If ya gotta go, you know?

I undo my pants and settle in when I hear a sound coming from the other side of the bathroom door. There’s muffled yelling. Screaming. Something urgent, something angry. I can’t make out the words, even through the thin door, but it sounds to me like at least two distinct, demanding voices. 

Suddenly, my sphincter puckers up and the will to shit has left me all together. I sit there, trying to hear what’s going on. Robbery, I wonder to myself. At McGillivray’s? At noon on a fucking Tuesday? There can’t be more than twenty or thirty bucks in the till at this hour. Who the fuck would come in to rob the joint now? Some tweakers high out of their minds, I figure. This has got shitshow written all over it. 

That’s when I hear the first shot. The retort rips through the place like an explosion and I clench my ass cheeks together. Shotgun. No doubt about it. I hear more screaming now. This time not the two angry voices, but others—my fellow patrons, I assume—and they’re terrified. There’s a second shot. Then a third rings out. And now I’m glad to be sitting on the john, because I lose all control of my bowels.  

More shots pierce the air and it isn’t long before the screaming stops. The sounds of panic and pain are replaced by something far, far worse. Silence. I can’t hear anything now except the staccato rhythm of my own palpitating heart. And that seems so loud that I’m sure anyone left alive in the bar is sure to hear it. Assuming anyone is still alive. 

I let the silence linger, hoping to slow my pulse and buy myself some time just in case the shooters are still out there. When it feels safe, or at least safe enough, I wipe, stand up, and walk forward. 

By the time I realize I’d forgotten to pull up my fucking pants, I’m falling. Fast and hard. I reach my hands out to brace my fall but with the stall’s latch broken, I push against the door and it swings open. My momentum keeps me moving forward. The door swings back just in time for my head to collide with it. I fall backwards now, still unable to find purchase. The next thing I know, I strike the back of my head against the porcelain throne. I hear a snapping sound, and I know it isn’t good. But I don’t feel anything, and I know that’s worse. 

Then everything goes dark. 

* * *

It goes like this: I down a shot of rye. It’s cheap shit, and… and… and what the fuck? The shot glass slips through my fingers and crashes to the subway tile floor below, reduced to smithereens. Everybody in the bar—the bulldog bartender, two at the bar, and three more seated at tables, all men, all north of forty but south of sixty, turn to look at me. Each wears a judgemental look on their face, but I have no time for their disdain. 

I need to figure out what’s going on. 

Suddenly, I feel a shot of pain in my left arm. It’s sharp, like I’ve been stabbed. My chest feels tight. The dim light in the bar suddenly seems intense and bright. It feels like I’m staring at the sun. My head spins and I feel dizzy. And nauseous. The next thing I know, I’m falling from my barstool. I crash onto the subway tile, and onto the shattered glass.  

Then everything goes dark. 

* * *

It goes like this: I down a shot of rye. I blink in rapid succession and try to come to grips with what’s happening. I’m back. My pulse is racing. My heart is pounding. 

Not again. 

I place the empty shot glass down on the bar and reach my tremulous hand into my pant pocket. There I find the tin of mints I carry with me everywhere. Only, there aren’t mints inside. I pop the hinged lid up and grab one of the little round yellow pills from my assortment of medicines. Holding it between shaking index finger and thumb, I nearly drop the damn thing but manage to navigate my hand to my mouth. I pop the pill under my tongue and, as it dissolves, I say a silent prayer that it does its job. 

Before long, my pulse slows and my heart calms. The nitroglycerin tablet seems to be working. And not a moment too soon.  

Bulldog-face makes his way back over to me with the bottle of rye, but I place my hand atop the shot glass. The urge to keep my wits about me and try to figure a way to stay alive and escape this loop beats out my desire for more drink. Just barely. 

I scamper down from the barstool, no destination in mind, just my sense of preservation taking hold. I scan the room. There’s a forlorn pool table, its felt faded and torn, off in the corner. I could try to fight the gunmen off with a pool cue and some well-thrown pool balls. Yeah, right. There’s the liquor behind the bar. Molotov cocktail? I’ve never made one but I’ll bet a dirty dish rag, the bottle of rye, and a lighter would do the trick. Who am I kidding? I’m not some kind of action hero. 

Just then, two gunmen burst into the bar. One is short and fat and carrying a pump action shotgun. The other, tall and lean, hoists a sawed off. Both are wearing ski masks. 

Fuck. I thought I had more time. 

There’s shouting. Short and fat tells everyone not to move. Tall and lean demands money from the register and safe. Somebody, not me, gets brave. It happens behind me, and I’m too scared shitless to turn around. But it goes wrong. Tall and lean fires his shotgun and I hear a body thud to the floor. Short and fat pumps his shotgun and starts shooting too. 

The next thing I know, my stomach feels hot, like the rye I’d downed has combusted. But it’s not that, I realize. I clutch at my belly and see the free flow of crimson spilling out. What was inside is now out and it’s flowing in torrents.  

Then everything goes dark. 

* * *

It goes like: I look down at the bar and see my hand grasping the shot glass. It’s filled to the brim with rye. Here we go again, and I still have no idea what’s happening to me. Or why. 

I motion to the bartender, who ambles over in no particular hurry. I take a deep breath. My pulse is okay. My heart doesn’t feel like it’s about to explode. I exhale in relief.

The bartender arrives, the bottle of rye in his hand. He raises it to pour me another shot and stops short when he realizes I haven’t drunk the one in front of me yet.

“Something wrong with your drink?” he asks.

“No,” I reply, feeling the shake in my voice. “Just had a question.”

“I’ll give you an answer if I got one. No charge,” he says.

“How many of these have I had?” I ask, motioning my head towards the shot glass.

The man raises an eyebrow at me. “You shittin’ me, pal? This some kind of joke?”

I shake my head. “No joke. How many?”

The bartender gives me a look that’s one part pity and one part disgust. He turns away but says as he goes, “Finish that one and then hit the road, bud.”

Hit the road. Yes! That’s a great fucking idea! That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I leave the rye untouched on the bar and hop down from my stool. I don’t even take time to grab the fiver I’d placed on the bar in anticipation of my next drink. 

I don’t run for the exit, but I sure as shit think about it. I get to the door and push it open, hoping to break this fucking cycle. As I take a step outside of McGillicuddy's, I draw in a deep breath and savor the taste of fresh air and freedom. I’m out! 

Stepping from the curb, I hear a horn and my wind is sucked out of my lungs as something crashes into me. It should hurt, but I feel nothing. There’s no time for the pain receptors in my brain to register so much as a blip. The next thing I know, I’m lying prone on the road. 

Then everything goes dark. 

* * *

It goes: the disorientation isn’t so bad this time. I think I’m getting used to all this crazy looping. I still don’t understand it. I still don’t like it. But it beats the alternative, which is permanent death. Maybe this will keep happening until I figure out a way of stayin’ alive. Suddenly, the Bee Gee’s song worms its way into my brain and maybe that’s a fate worse than death. 

Scampering down from my stool, I scan the joint, trying to figure out my next move. Hide? Find something to fight back with? Fuck no. I’m no fighter. Especially not against two guys with shotguns. Back to the bathroom? I shudder at the thought. I died there once already, even if it was due to my own stupidity. I don’t want to die there again. 

I don’t want to die anywhere again. 

That’s when the door to the joint bursts open and two men wearing ski masks rush in. What? No! I should have more time. I’m standing out in the open. This is no good! 

The first guy, short and fat, has a pump action shotgun. The other, tall and lanky, is wielding a sawed off. 

Short and fat pumps his shotgun and yells, “Nobody move!” 

Tall and lanky brushes past me, heading for the bar. He points his shotgun at the bulldog-faced bartender and shouts, “Gimme everything from the register. Empty the safe! Move your ass!” 

Giving a slight nod of his head towards short and fat, bulldog-face says calmly, “He said not to move.” 

“Smart ass,” tall and lanky says as he swings the butt of his shotgun at bulldog-face’s head but the bartender takes a step back and he misses badly. Tall and lanky does a sloppy pirouette, propelled by the weight of the shotgun missing its mark. One of the patrons sitting at the bar, a bald-headed doughy-faced spark plug who looks like he was probably a Marine, leaps from his stool and tackles tall and lanky. The sawed off is knocked out of tall and lanky’s grip and spirals across the subway tile floor.  

The shotgun finds its way to my feet. Short and fat looks at the gun and then at me and just as he raises his pump action in my direction, bulldog-face hurls a salvo of pint glasses directly at him. The first glass misses wide, smashing against the wall behind short and fat, but the second and third both drill the gunman in the head. Neither glass shatters, but the impact is enough to catch him off guard. He instinctively pulls the trigger of his shotgun but it’s now aimed at the ceiling and, thankfully, not at me. The gun erupts and the shell sends pockmarks into the ceiling and a rain of drywall onto short and fat’s head. 

I take advantage of the opportunity and scoop up the sawed off. With the ex-Marine still ably handling tall and lean, I take aim at short and fat and scream in what I intend to be a menacing growl, but instead sounds like a wounded kitten’s cry, “Drop your gun. Now!” I wince as I hear my voice crack like a pimply-faced prepubescent teen. 

Suddenly, a voice booms all around us, “What the fuck is going on? This is fucking bullshit! This isn’t supposed to happen.” The voice is loud. Too loud. And I have no idea where it’s coming from. It’s like the voice of God. And God is pissed. 

“What’s the problem?” another disembodied voice asks. This one is also loud but less angry, less ear-bleed inducing. 

“This stupid fucking game,” the voice of God says. “That NPC isn’t supposed to attack the gunman. And THAT NPC isn’t supposed to pick up a shotgun and point it at me! Every time I load this level, the idiot NPCs, especially THAT one, are doing shit they’re not supposed to do.” 

“You’re still playing that dumb game? Turn it off and let’s go to bed,” the softer voice says.  

NPC? What the fuck? I look down at the sawed off in my hands and then at the other people in the bar. The next thing I know, bulldog-face shouts out, “What’s an NP-”

Then everything goes dark.