Bar project

Smoke from cigars and cigarettes hangs over the room, forming a thin curtain.  Evening is creeping in, but the patrons don't seem to notice.  A table in the back houses a group of five engrossed in a poker game; the only sounds from that direction of the bar the clink of poker chips and the occasional guffaw and sigh at the hands of fortune and its mistress.  None of the other patrons pay them any mind.  At the bar, there are several men mulling into glasses of various degrees of empty containing liquors ranging from vodka to scotch.  Each is lost in his own misery.  An old analog television is displaying a baseball game and a couple of fellows are intent upon the game.  Local team is down by five runs and it's the top of the eighth, neither is expecting the team to pull off a victory here.  An old jukebox stands in one of the corners, playing blues that fall on deaf ears.  These people know the blues, they live it everyday.  For most of them, this bar is like a second home, an escape from the mundane lives they live in offices, warehouses, and local diners.  The bar has stood here for decades, tucked in between a barber shop and an abandoned building that once sold vacuums and their accessories.  Of course, that store went out of business back in 76 and no one has bothered with it since then.  One of the baseball fans groans and shakes his head.  Another three and out, a wasted inning.
The door creaks open and a man comes in carrying a newspaper folded under one of his arms.  No one even bothers to glance over at him as he makes his way over to a table away from everyone else.  He quietly pulls the newspaper out and lights up a cigarette, taking his time savoring it as he scans through the paper.  Minutes later, another man comes in, younger than the first by about ten years or so.  The second man heads over to the bar and orders a cheap beer before joining the first.
"You're late," newspaper says, never taking his eyes from the paper
"Traffic," is young's answer.  He's hesitant to look the older man in the eyes and so diverts his gaze to the beer before him.  It's obvious that he's nervous about something, fidgeting his hands and casting looks around the room as if every other patron there is involved in some conspiracy against him.  There's a screech from a chair as one of the baseball watchers gets up and leaves, disgusted by his teams performance.
"Smoke?" the older man asks, digging into his pockets for his box of cigarettes and yet still managing to not once look at the younger man.
"I don't smoke," the younger man says defensively.
"Of course you don't," the older man says with a chuckle.  He lights up, and turns the page of his paper. There's a moment of silence between the two of them as he continues to read whatever has him entranced.  The door opens again and admits two women still garbed in their waitress attire from the diner across the street.  They chatter amongst themselves and settle down at a table away from the two men.  Finally, the older man puts out his cigarette and speaks.  "What happened last night?"
The younger man scratches his head and starts to stutter, sweat popping out on his forehead.  "We got a rat," he finally manages to get out.
For the first time since the younger man joined him, the older one gives him a look.  The way the younger man acted, it's clear he would have preferred not to have this attention on him.  "No shit.  You think you're some kind of smart guy, stating the obvious like that?"
"N-no boss.  I ain't smart at all."
"Of course you aren't, you little schmuck.  So they got Brady and Lee.  How did you manage to avoid the pigs?"
Sweat was pouring more profusely.  "I kinda, uh, got a phone call, on my cell phone." Silence, so he decided to continue.  "It was Ellie, my sister.  Our father had a heart attack last night.  I went back to the car to talk to her and the next thing I know, the place is buzzing with pigs.  They must've had some kinda tip or something."
"Family is important."
Relief showed instantly on the younger man's face. "Yeah, boss.  He's okay, should be leaving the hospital in the morning."
"I'm glad to hear that O'Brian.  Now where's my money?"
Horror replaced relief.  "Our man wasn't there.  He, he wasn't."
"You're telling me, you lost two hundred pounds of blow to the pigs, and you didn't get any fucking money."  His voice was calm and his face showed no real emotion at all.
"It wasn't my fault!"  O'Brian was scrambling for some sort of explanation, but he knew that nothing would appease this angered god.
"You know I don't like mistakes.  And I don't like excuses either."  Reaching into the same pocket as his cigarettes, the older man pulled out a small handgun.
"You ain't gonna shoot me here!" the younger man was frantic.  "There's people here and you know I have a family!  I'll do whatev-"
The bang of the gun didn't even cause the other patrons to stir.  O'Brian's body slumped over, blood and brain matter oozing from the hole in his skull.  Brushing pieces of the younger man off of him, the older man stood and went to the bartender.  "Buy everyone a round on me," he said slapping a hundred dollar bill on the table.  "I'll have someone come by to clean up later tonight."  With a nod from the bartender, the older man left the bar.

The landscape of Tulsa and its surrounding suburbs are encased in a white prison of snow.  I'm not quite sure when I went from being excited for snow to dreading it.  Probably around the time I started to drive around it.  Thankfully, Tulsa's about as hormonal as a teenager when it comes to weather patterns so this shouldn't last too much longer.  Things I also wished wouldn't last much longer?  Construction.  It's everywhere in this godforsaken city.  Literally, you can't get from one end of the town to the other without running into half a dozen construction zones.  The city's too poor to keep the streetlights on, but there are dozens of projects scattered across the city.  Makes a lot of sense.  Let's not forget that some of these have been going on for over a year and a half and don't look to be ending anytime soon.  I've got a feeling Betty White will outlive some of these projects.  On a slightly more positive note, there are a few good concerts coming up soon.  Periphery, Fair to Midland and Interpol, all in April.

Well, I guess the reason I started this whole blog thing was to give me some practice and hopefully inspire me to take writing a little more seriously.  I may not be James Joyce or Thomas Pynchon, but maybe someday I'll write a novel of some worth for someone to read.  I've got so many ideas, it's hard to pick one and just go with it.  Oh, you can expect whatever I write to be full of really weird stuff and to be somewhat depressing.  Hopefully in a comic way of course.  Not everyone has the dark sense of humor I do, so I'm sure some people won't get it.  That's it for now, I'll come up with something more coherent next time.