Why There's Never Hunger in Hell

It was just before midnight and the bar was almost empty. Sam the barman was not busy as there was only one customer seated in the far end of his bar, who sat alone nursing the remains of his glass of bourbon and had been doing so for the last hour.

Sam didn’t know the old man’s name, but he was an occasional customer who was over the last few weeks beginning to graduate to having “regular” status, so Sam was confident that it was only a matter of time before he would not only learn the guy’s name, but he was also going to get to hear his life’s story including his deepest, darkest, most intimate details. Such was the lot of priests, psychiatrists and bartenders since the beginning of time.

Sam was cleaning some glasses when a familiar dark figure walked in off the street. For a second, Sam and this newcomer exchanged glances before the dark figure from the cold dark void beyond said, “hi Sam, I’m about to conduct some business so I’ll need the bar in a few minutes.”

Sam did not answer what was said to him, he just nodded and moved to the other end of the room where the old man was drinking. The newcomer settled himself and the duffle bag he was carrying down in his usual spot in the far corner of the bar, away from where the old man and Sam were right now. Whilst Sam was talking to the old man the newcomer sat down and made himself comfortable in a seat that faced (and had a clear view of) the entrance to the bar. The table and seat were also a short distance from the rear exit of Sam’s bar. There was truth in thinking that there was nothing that the spider did with his web was by chance.

Presently, Sam came over to the table and as he did so he called out a farewell over his shoulder to the old man as his customer left the bar via the main door.

“Evening Luther,” said Sam as he approached the table, “what’s the setup tonight?”

“I’ve got a pair of country boys tonight so the theme’s country and western,” replied Luther, “oh…while you’re getting ready, I need a bottle of your strong stuff. We want to move things along tonight. I want to be done as soon as I can with these hillbillies.”

Again, Sam just nodded in response and set about getting the bar ready for Luther’s “business”.

What followed in the next five minutes was nothing short of a whirlwind transformation of the space the two men were in. Sam moved along the walls of the bar and systematically removed every piece of decoration which reflected the history and location of where the bar was located. The bartender took all the old pictures of the city skylines, city celebrities and signed photos of film personalities who had once visited the bar off the walls of the bar and replaced them with well-known country and western singers and musicians. Also replaced were the Hollywood memorabilia that hung in various places on the walls of the bar, with items related sports activities such as a decommissioned Winchester rifle and fishing tackle and old American football gear.

So efficient was what Sam did that within a short time the whole ambiance of the bar was transformed and was made to appeal to a different set of potential customers from the crowd that Sam was used to catering to.

When Sam stopped by Luther’s table to drop off a bottle of rye whiskey the seated man joked, “what no horseshoes?”

Sam heard the pathetic attempt at humour but did not respond. He had other things to do and was not in a mood to indulge Luther’s puerile mood at that moment in time. He just nodded to signify that he heard the feeble attempt at humour and returned to his station behind the bar, and as he did so he quickly glanced at his pump action shotgun under the counter to make sure it was in place and to hand.

Within fifteen minutes of Sam getting everything ready two men walked into the bar. They were both dressed in thick lumberjack jackets, plaid shirts and dirty jeans. Although the clothing the men wore were of slightly different design, the apparel they had on was so similar that Sam likened what they had on to a sort of uniform that was one notch up from the down and outs that roamed the streets outside the bar.

The taller of the two men was a blonde individual who looked as if he had spent his days making his living using his hands. He had a large face with distinctive blue eyes and a goatee beard. He was also well built and even with his jacket on Sam could see he had a broad chest and a muscular frame. His companion, on the other hand, was much shorter man with dark hair and looked to be of less robust construction. This man had a long angular face with sharp features that reminded Sam to those of a weasel. Sam decided then and there, based on years of experience serving bar, that the shorter guy was the leader and would do the talking for the pair of them.

As Sam watched the two men as they looked around their surroundings and he could see they visibly relaxed as they took in the environment they were in. Sam then saw from the corner of his eye, the men looked towards the direction of the bar and Sam heard the taller man say in a soft voice, “damn I could kill for a beer right now”. Sam did not say anything, but he silently made a mental note of the drink preference.

“Hey bud,” the shorter man called out to Sam, “we’re looking for someone named Luther, do you know him? We’re here cos we were told to look for them here.”

Sam did not answer, he merely looked over to where Luther was sitting and pointed.

The two men then made their way across the room towards where Luther was sitting whilst Luther was acting as if he was too occupied with his rye and something he was texting on his phone to notice or care of their approach.

“You Luther?” Asked the shorter man.

“Who’s asking?” Luther replied without taking his eyes off his phone.

“We’re from out of town. We were told to look you up…because we were told we could talk business with you,” the shorter man answered at the same time he cast his eyes around to the bar behind which Sam was standing.

“Yeah, so what business do you want to talk about?”

“Can we talk somewhere private?” the short guy said motioning towards the bar and Sam.

Luther looked up from his phone and in the direction the short guy was indicating and said, “I’ve been doing business in this bar for years so don’t worry Sam over there. He’s the main reason why I do business here because he is my insurance.”

At which point Sam took his shotgun from behind the counter and laid it on top of the bar.

“Now whatever business you gentlemen what to talk about,” Luther went on in a relaxed tone, “it’s simply uncivilized to do so without a drink.”

The two men looked at each other with a mixture of unease and lessening confidence but eventually answered, “okay then two beers.”

Luther smirked at the response and then called out to his colleague, “Sam make sure we’re not disturbed we’ve got some business to discuss here, and whilst you’re at it get me a bottle of whisky with two glasses.”

Whilst Sam locked the bar door and got the bottle, the two men sat down nervously. If there was any objection to Luther’s unilateral choice of drink, they were psychologically barred from putting up any argument.

Sam noted this to himself and thought how this whole process was already set up in a way that Luther wanted. Like a chess master presenting his opponent with a board where the pieces were positioned in a way that checkmate was all but inevitable.

Once seated, Luther started dictating the pace of the negotiations but more importantly the drinking that was incidental to it.

Round after round, Luther emptied his glasses of hard liquor and insisted that two men kept pace with his rate of consumption. To do this he used a mixture of jovial banter, teasing laced with crude questions related to his drinking partner’s manhood, and good old-fashioned intimidation.

To Sam watching the scene at a distance, on one level the rate at which the two men were drinking made no sense. They were obviously not used to the pace of drinking and the strength of the whisky they were drinking was something they were also having difficulties coping with.

However, on a different level, Sam had seen this scene played out many times before and he knew Luther’s moves and gameplay were all going according to plan.

Finally, they arrived at the crux move of the night when Luther asked, “so what do you fine gentlemen want from me?”

“We have a job planned next week and we need hardware,” said the taller guy with a slurred voice, “we need fire power to get pass the security we’ll get over onsite.”

Sam noticed his friend’s face registered some discomfort with what the tall guy said but the booze had gotten to him as well and he put up a thin attempt to maintain operational security that had already been lost by saying, “we can’t say what or where we’re hitting but we need enough fire power to deal with at least four armed guards.”

Sam noted to himself that all it took were two and half bottles of gut rot to get to this stage. These guys can’t hold their booze.

Luther’s face broke into a wide smile, and he said, “well hell you need hardware! why didn’t you guys say so earlier?” He next reached down to the bag on the floor by his feet and produced two assault rifles in plastic bags together with boxes of ammo before putting the whole lot on the table.

Luther then waved his hand over the firearms and boxes of ammunition and said, “and so there you have it two shooters clean as virgins from the convent. Untouched and with no history to worry about.”

Negotiations then went to the price, and quickly the men produced two rolls of cash bound by rubber bands.

Thereafter, the men took the guns and ammo in the bag on the floor and staggered drunkenly out the door.

After their exit, Sam locked the door and turned to Luther still sat at the table busily counting the cash he had been left and said, “big job…next week, and with four armed guards…got to be the cash office of the stadium after the game on Saturday.”

Luther replied without looking up, “that’s what I thought as well.”

“That’s worth big bucks. Are you going to call the feds?”

“Nope,” Luther replied whilst leaving one of the two rolls of cash on the table for Sam, “it’s a call to the local homicide squad. They’re holding old man Conti’s son for the hit he pulled off last month. This tip will be worth them losing Conti’s kid during the prison transfer in two days’ time.”

Luther then got up and said, “got to go, I have phone calls to make to Mr. Conti and after that to our friendly neighborhood pigs.”

Sam watched Luther vanish out the door into the cold dark streets beyond and he thought to himself that it’s true what they say in the old country, “there’s never any famine in hell because the devil will always eat his own.”