Public House, Private Lives Part 2

The Joint Wick was on the downslope of the hill that Woo-Yi ran way on. Wilhelm manhandled Yeung-Sung’s shoulders and pushed him up that hill from behind, not taking no for an answer. He felt saddled, like a horse -or better yet a worm, given how he squirmed in the hold, and how they kicked up dirt from all sides in the process. In the end, Ryan had broken his will. Yeung-Sung only hoped that he wouldn’t let himself get in the habit having overcharged idiots lead him around.

First Simon and then Woo-Yi, now this guy.

They halted half a dozen buildings down the other side. Wil flung Yeung-Sung into the wall of the Joint Wick. He pushed out his hands to mete the impact, but was greeted still with the coarse boulders that made up the pub’s wall. He encased one with both arms. He tasted the feel of it under his chin, all around his upper body and noticed that the wall was made the old way. The natural way; devoid of steel and rebar. Built upwards, as Yeung-Sung imagined, by the hands of men. Above him was gilded lettering; The title of the pub in a font Gothic, basic. The Joint Wick.

Spending so much time hearing about the digitization in Airgead (and otherwise), Yeung-Sung was happy to know that remnants like this still existed. It even stood outside the influence of the depressed world. He pressed his cheek against it.

“We’re here,” Wilhelm said, “I’ll let you finish making love to the scenery while I head in.” He held the wooden door open. Feeling the cold spot on his cheek with one hand, Yeung-Sung took hold of the handle and followed Wil inside. As he passed through, he ran his fingers across the door and felt the prickle of rough grain against his fingers. The way it held on to him was an invitation for Yeung-Sung. The wood didn’t bend like any modern metal or plastic, but stood firm, like an ancient guardian being scratched behind the ear.

“You can’t sell it for lower?”

“No.”

“WH-Whadd’ya mean you ca’nne sell ih for lower?”

Three strong voices butted against each other inside the Wick. Two were cracking their fists against the counter in argument while the bartender parried away their complaints with numerous No-s. This hugely built man -He must be the owner, though he dresses more like a businessman- tugged up his white sleeves and began to be more concerned with his phone rather than his angry patrons. Their continued bickering washed over him as he stood relaxed, in a sideways, uncaring.

Wilhelm led Yeung-Sung through the dimly lit bar, all browns and greens straight out of a farmer’s dream. They passed a couple that hunched over at a round table, with a third curly haired man that leaned off to the side, nodding along frantically. Between the faded wallpaper and antique paintings that slept in their frames, the lo-fi music pumped throughout and it was jarring. It masked their entrance, but as they passed the man at the round table looked up with a bastard of a grin. In a staggered eastern-European accent, he said, “Hah! Wil, you owe me one!”

“Suck my balls, bro,” Wil snapped back. “That bet was bullshit. How was I supposed to know they’d rework the battle system into that?”

“You weren’t”, the European pointed out. “None of us could have guessed what he do. That is reason I took the bet.” “The bastard,” he added and sat back, his hands slick with the grease stains from touching his denim overalls. He relaxed his arm over the back of his chair. “But if I remember- you looked pretty cun-fident anyway. I am wrong?”

Wilhelm began to pass him, nose upturned, legs striding high like a child. “That’s Martin,” he whispered to Yeung-Sung, who followed close behind. “He loves to piss me off.”

“He’s not a friend?” Yeung-Sung asked.

“He’s a good dude,” he said, turning back to the table, “just annoying as all hell.”

Yeung-Sung looked back. The woman at the table was patting the European, saying “He won’t pay you. You should’ve made a contract with him. I told you that before.”

Martin frowned, unconvinced. “You still owe me, Wil! I expect to get drunk tonight, with your help”.

The man against the side wall chuckled, shaking his head that was half in the shadow. Still, Yeung-Sung was struck by how wonderfully cared for his curled hair was. He looks like a rockstar, damn.

Wil waved away the demand thrown at him. “Fuck off, Martin”.

His bangs obscuring his view, once the man flicked them off to the side, he noticed Yeung-Sung staring and glared. “What are you looking at?”

Wil grabbed Yeung-Sung and pulled him forward.

Stunned, Yeung-Sung said, “Nothing.”

The man stroked through one of his bangs with a finger. “Nothing? Is that what I am, because you seem to be looking at me. Hmm?” He pushed off the wall suddenly, puffing out his chest out beneath his sleeveless waistcoat.

Martin, still sitting, caught a muscular arm. “Relax, you,” he laughed. He took a drink then squinted his eyes at Yeung-Sung. “Wil, you shit-head, is this who I think this is? Looks a lot like lost sheep.”

Face turning taught, Martin leered at Yeung-Sung, “Looking at our Shirley over there?”

Shirley tore his arm free, saying “Let go of me,” with his voice suddenly stretched and high.

“Just… your hair,” Yeung-Sung cut in. “It’s nice.”

“And I can’t have nice hair?”, he asked, aggravated. With that he crossed his arms and slammed back into his previous position against the wall with a deep thud.

Yeung-Sung opened his mouth to apologise, but judging by Shirley’s body language, he had already forgotten about him.

“Come on, there’s loads more to meet,” Wil said, poking his arm.

As they approached the bar, the bickering that was going on ended in a slam.

“Would ye’ shut it?” came the thick, pastoral accent from the slammer.

He was Steph, as Yeung-Sung soon found out. A giant reed of a man with a drooping posture. He lolled his head on the rim of the counter in agony, saying, “If ‘ah don’ get a drink soon ah’m gonna go cray-zeh!”

Around him, other patrons erupted at that and began bringing up clouds of dust with their fists which burrowed the electronic music under raging curses.

“That’s for fuckin’ sure,” slid in a sour female voice from farther back.

The Joint Wick had several lounge booths, each partitioned by a flimsy wall with an iron wrought table, large enough for a party to sit at. From the very back -and sitting alone by the look of it, a woman with wild, matted hair was sticking her neck out. Upon seeing Yeung-Sung and Wilhelm approach, she stumbled out of the booth and walked up to them, at attention in front of them, her lucid stare spiralling towards him. It was merely uncomfortable at first, until Yeung-Sung noticed what she was wearing and became nervous; a lab coat!

“You’re a GLI researcher!” he immediately blurted out.

The scientist looked him over. A curl of hair tickled her cheek and she promptly blew it away, in a motion disregarding Yeung-Sung. Nobody else had paid any heed to his outburst either.

“Just pick a price Darnes,” she said, motioning for the bartender to pour for her. “It’s not that hard.”

The bartender nodded and took her empty glass but continued to complain. “The taxes. The taxes are too high. I can’t sell pints near the price I used to.”

“So sell it for more,” she told him.

Numerous shocked voices echoed the word. “-More?”

“Ehh, no!”

“Seriously?”

“Do not do that.”

Glaring at her sideways -his head still on the counter- Steph said, “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one paying.”

The scientist shrugged and Yeung-Sung noticed the bags under her eyes, huge and grey things like teabags strung over her teapot cheeks. “Perks of the job,” she muttered, swiping up her pint and swilling it out the side of her mouth. She gave the Scotsman a wink mid-gulp.

Darnes, the bartended frowned. “And if it keeps going up?” he asked, “I need to account for inflation in my price formula already. Aisling? Why didn’t you warn us?”

Stomping a foot down, she turned straight at him. “6 minims,” she growled. She took another passing glance at Yeung-Sung and Wil and began to wander back into the recesses of the pub, mumbling about how “I have to think for every idiot”.

Steph sprung up like a bent stalk. “6 minims? That’s double!”

“Ahh, c’mon, that’s too much!”

Darnes adjusted his sleeves, silent. He hoofed the ground like an anxious bull and contorted his lips into several different configurations before sighing, announcing, “Six minims it’ll be then.”

“Since when do you take orders from her, Darnes?” Wil asked, shifting elbow first before the bartender.

“Oh, Wil. Good to see you.”

Yeung-Sung listened to the regulars on their stools continue to complain. One or two blared their curses directly at Aisling. It was after a few of these when she snapped back. Hand gripping the side of her coat, she shouted, “Shut up, you oafs! I’m doing you a favour.”

Then, after a glance she laughed. “Maybe you should try asking the new boy to buy you a drink.” She hollered loudly at her own joke and slid into her booth.

“Yeung-Sung, isn’t it?” Darnes asked politely, “What did she mean by that?”

Wil’s eyes grew wide and glowed. He was on his phone and it backlit his profile. “His ID is not listed. He can’t buy anything.” His face was all concern. “I thought you were joking before.”

The couple from before had gotten up. The woman approached Yeung-Sung gently and asked, “Is that true? You’re not registered?” Her outfit was comfortable yet saggy. Her eyelids were the same.

Martin lumbered up beside her. “Why not?” he demanded, but his girl shushed him.

“Aisling’s right,” Wilhelm said. He showed around a long list of names on his phone. Then, he typed in Yeung-Sung, asked if the spelling was right -to which he got a nod- and tapped Search. All the entries cleared. An error notification was displayed shortly after.

Everyone turned to Yeung-Sung with gasps. Lost for words, Yeung-Sung was about to defend himself when Wil tapped him on the shoulder with the tip of his phone.

“I guess you weren’t lying after all. Well there’s only one thing for you to do now, right?”

Yeung-Sung searched for the door.