Drunk Driver

The afterlife.

Bathed in a warm glow from the light, Justin felt only torment. He could never crossover to eternal peace and happiness as long as hatred boiled inside his heart. Billy Denton had to be destroyed before Justin’s soul would ever find peace.

“Christy!” Justin cried out and fell to his knees, his tear-blurry eyes now focused on the light’s bright core. “I tried to save you.”
Mist began to swirl. “Justice, beware,” said Wach-el’s deep voice from the light.

Justin tore off his cowboy hat and Frisbeed it across the ethereal plane. “It’s over.”

“Your troubles have just begun.”

“Christy’s dead. Billy Denton killed her.”

“I have seen her affliction.”

The light parted, washing the afterlife in a crimson glow. Roiling, the red mist transformed into billowing black smoke. Yellow flames licked the air. In the midst of the inferno, Christy appeared, sitting on a fiery throne. She was dressed in a red bikini, her black hair again long and flowing, and her sweat-shiny skin aglow in a coppery tan. Chains made of human bones shackled her ankles to a lava-rock floor. Forlorn eyes stared straight forward, blankly.

Justin’s dead heart lurched. “Look what’s become of her.”

Cynical laughter echoed through the afterlife, a sound so foreign in this purgatory it could have been a horrifying scream in the sanctuary of a church.

“The devil did this.”

“She did this to herself, Justice,” Wach-el said. “Hell is where she belongs.”

“You’re wrong. It’s my fault she’s there…I was a lousy father.”

“You cannot save her from her punishment.”

“I failed her in life. Now I’ve failed her in death.”

“That cannot be changed. Her place in hell was not negotiable, no matter what the devil made you believe.”

“But a hundred souls for her pardon…that was the deal.”

“Not a million souls, Justice. She would never be allowed to cross over to peace and everlasting happiness.”

Justin wiped away a tear. “What did she do that was so wrong, so unforgivable?”

“She embraced evil.”

“That was Billy Denton’s doing.”

“He gave her the opportunity, and she took it. She shunned her father. There’s no changing the penalty for that.”

“What about forgiveness?”

“She never asked.”

The vision of Christy in hell faded, and the light dimmed.

“She was too young to understand the consequences. It’s Billy Denton’s fault...I hate that son of a bitch!”

“Let go of your hate and crossover, Justin.”

He bowed his head. “Not until Billy is destroyed.”

“You should reconsider. You have much to lose. ”

“What’s left?”

The light brightened. “You have a visitor.”

“Who?”

“Justice, beware.”

***

Meanwhile, in Deckers Badland Bar, cigarette smoke drifted through the cone of light that beamed down from a Coors lamp above the only pool table in the joint. Dagger Man stepped up, belched, rubbed the skull tattoo on his arm, and leaned in with his cue stick, taking aim on the white ball. His mother had named him Burt. He didn’t like that name much...or his mother, for that matter.

Deckers’ redneck bar smelled of sweat and beer and stale pizza, but mostly beer. Here in the armpit of Texas, the lawless riffraff of society hung out, talked of time done in prison and whose old lady gave the best head. This was the caliber of the crowd that gathered around, their eyes on the pool table and the impossible shot facing Dagger Man. A hush fell over them like the plague on a prairie-dog colony.

Except for Red Dog, Dagger Man’s opponent in this loser-buys-the-next-round tournament of drunken bikers and rowdy cowboys. He had to shoot off his mouth. “You’re gonna miss.”

Squinting, Dagger Man snarled, “Kiss my ass, grunt face.” He armed sweat from his forehead. So what if the shot looked impossible: a combination, cross corner, triple bank on the three-ball. With ten beers in his gut, he felt invincible, although a bit unsteady on his feet. The cue stick wobbled and just touched the cue ball, which moved ever so slightly.

“That’s a shot,” Red Dog shouted. “Step away, piss ant. It’s my turn.”

“Bullshit!” Dagger Man held his ground.

“Them’s the rules. Touch the cue ball, it’s a foul. You forfeit the shot.”

“What a stupid rule. It was an accident.” Anybody could’ve seen that. “Screw the rule.” He took the shot anyway.

“Hey!”

The cue ball hit the three-ball with a crack. Balls started dropping into pockets like gofers into gofer holes.

Onlookers erupted in cheers.

Dagger man felt like a million bucks. “You lose, Red Dog. I believe you owe everybody a beer. Me first.”

Red Dog puffed out his chest. “The shot don’t count.”

A loudmouth yelled, “You know the rules, Dagger Man.”

“Rules?” Dagger Man wouldn’t tolerate any heckling from the peanut gallery. “Rules are for pussies.”

“Cheater!”

Drunk as he was, Dagger Man’s fuse lit off real short. He slammed the cue stick right upside Red Dog’s head.

Home run!

Everything after that flew by in a drunken blur: fists swinging, boots kicking, men cursing. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled on the sidewalk out front, his face plowing the gutter.

“And don’t be driving,” the bartender yelled and slammed shut the door.

Bastard!

Dagger Man could drive if he damn well wanted. Just because Texas took his driver’s license away, didn’t mean shit. He’d been hauled in for DUI five times already. He was getting good at walking the line, picking up nickels, and babbling out the alphabet. A-B-C-G-S-T-V, screw the rules! They can stick my license up their asses.

He struggled to his feet, fished keys from his pocket, and staggered toward his black Chevy dually with the souped up engine and loud pipes.