TWO

The Oldest Pub

Wedged between a faerie night club and a vegan coffee shop a few blocks west of my building, Exodus is the most interesting pub on the Flip Side. Or anywhere. Apparently, Moses originally built and rank the pub near Mt Sinai, back in the day. It showed up here sometime in or around 1910. To my knowledge, nobody save for the owner knows why he or it chose Des Moines’ flipside nor how the entire pub was transported, intact, from the Sinai desert. He never offers up an explanation. He just stares at you like you’re an idiot and says “I’m Moses”. And he is.

Exodus is my favorite libations dealer anywhere in the world. I’d be a regular if Moses allowed regulars, which he doesn’t. He’s kicked customers out for showing up too regularly. I’ve never asked why, even though it seems contrary to every business model ever conceived, because he’s never once kicked me out. I’d hate to ruin a good thing, and his pub tops my list of Good Things. I suppose we’re friends, in a way.

The pub is constructed out of what I can only imagine are the original materials. Rough and unstained, hand-cut wood planks make up the tables and benches. You’d think they’d be uncomfortable, but a few millennia of customers have pressed ass-conformed shapes into the wood that let you settle right in as if they were specially molded to yours.

Some of the tables have worn leather chairs, and a set of menacing Victorian leather lounges sit in the corners. I never sit in them. I fear they’ll eat me. The floor is unpolished stone and immaculately clean. I’m convinced Moses uses a cleaning service but he refuses to acknowledge it and give me their number.

As I arrived, only a few people where in their drinks. The heat of flame threatened to scorch my face as I walked through the single door and into the pub proper. Moses never got around to wiring the place for modern lightning and still used torches on the walls and candles on the tables. Why he kept live torches on each side of the door frame’s narrow entryway is up for debate. Some say it’s to keep evil away. I think it’s just to annoy us, and weed out some of the customers he’d rather not deal with.

I arrived before Big John so I took a seat at my normal table with a nod to Moses, who had already grabbed a bottle of Macallan for me. Scotch is my drink of choice, and I enjoy it something fierce. I don’t drink every day,m but when I do, only touch the good stuff. And sometimes I touch it a lot.

As at Bento Fusion, but for very different reasons, I never have to order here either. Moses just gives me a once-over when I enter, and decides what to serve me, as he does with all of his customers. The first time I’d ever been to Exodus I made the mistake of trying to order for myself. Moses had leaned over the bar and punched me in the neck. By the time I’d recovered he’d set a Talisker and scotch egg in front of me, and I had to admit it was by far a better choice than what I’d been about to request. I’ve let him make the call on my orders ever since. I also don’t tell other people about my experience, because I enjoy watching him hit them for the same mistake. His beatings ahve a certain old school charm to them.

Of the three other patrons, I only recognized one: Harrold Taylor. He was a private investigator originally based out of Seattle who so often ended up in the Des Moines flipside following leads that he’d recently decided to move his whole operation out here. We cross paths now and again on cases, and I raised my glass to him.

“How’s life?” I asked, taking a sip and holding it on my tongue for a moment before swallowing, then relishing in the slow warmth as the nectar spread its heat through my chest.

“Never bored, frequently frustrated, and in desperate need of an assistant who isn’t a complete idiot”. He sniffed and shook his head.

Harrold - don’t ever call him Harry or you’ll spend your later years fondly remembering when you had two testicles - had the strangest of accents. All the proper enunciation of the British with the inflection of a Midwestern American. He was an all around average looking guy. His brown hair was showing signs of wanting for a haircut and he was a bit scruffy at the edges but that comes with the job. He had on his grey duster of his grey suit and red tie. I’d never seen him wear anything else. I noted the half-empty bottle of merlot clutched in his right hand while he drained the last of his goblet with the other. That’s right, Moses uses actual goblets, another reason I love the pub.

“Dead end with a case?”

“In a matter of speaking, yes. I am completely, utterly, and dis-satisfactorily out of ideas.” He refilled his goblet.

“I’ve got a few minutes to kill, bounce some ideas off me”.

“I can’t, that’s part of the problem. My payment comes with a geas that prevents me from sharing details with any person other than my self and my astoundingly incompetent assistant”.

I was about to respond - and I promise it would have been a witty remark about how his assistant must be a reflection of himself - had the door not flown off its hinges right then, landing with a bang and skidding to a halt a few inches from my feet.

As the dust cleared a man with the most pronounced barrel chest I’d ever seen stepped through, looked menacingly at Moses, and smiled through his unkempt beard. After another loud bang, he was unable to look at anybody, as his head was in pieces, splattered on the walls and floor behind him. I looked over to the bar as Moses put away his shotgun. He was calm and composed, so I decided I would be too.

As was my way, I raised an eyebrow when I caught his eye.

“Wealcan, Taylor, do an old man a favor and haul that trash out back before it bleeds the rest of its life force all over my floor, would ya?”

“Old man? Dude, look at you. You’re like… twenty-two”. I was comfortable right where I was, thank you very much.

“I’ve been around more years than you can count numbers. It’s just my body that has the fitness of a twenty something”.

“Uh, I rest my case?” I tried.

“Just get rid of the body, I’m busy”. With that, Moses turned back to the plasma screen mounted above his bar, and devoted his attention to drying the same goblet over and over with his cloth while watching the cricket match. He’s fascinated with cricket. I think it’s incredibly boring, but it’s the only sport his TV shows. Ever. You might think it’d be hard to air cricket matches twenty-four seven, but you’d be wrong.

“I’ve got the legs, you take the head” Harrold said, swaying slightly now that he was on his feet.

“Works for me”. I rolled up my sleeves, scooped up the remaining chunks of what once constituted the mans head and walked out the back door to dump them down the sewer grate. No reason for the rats and Other Things that live down there not to benefit from the guy’s death. Look at me, recycling.

“You’re a dick. You know that’s not what I meant” Harrold huffed, dragging the rest of the body through the door as I held it open for him.

“No, you’re a dick. Get it? Because you’re a P.I.?”

Harrold sighed. “At least help me heft this into the dumpster”.

“Just leave it by the grate there, something’ll come up for it. What? It’s called recycling!” That earned me an eye roll to go with another sigh. Some people, I tell ya…

“Fine, I’m off in search of my assistant” he said, dropping the corpse to the ground and wiping his hands on its jeans. “She disappeared for no reason. Have a good one, man”. Harrold waved distractedly to me and stumbled out of the alley.

I stepped back into Exodus and made for the bathroom to wash up, remembering to be mindful of the blood streak left behind by Harrold dragging the body, then realizing that wasn’t necessary. There was no blood anywhere in the pub - nor on my hands. As it had been when I arrived, the floor was pristine. The front door was back on its hinges. The bits of brain I hadn’t picked up were gone, and the room smelled vaguely of cardamom. I glared at Moses.

“Dammit man, give me the number of your cleaning people! Stop holding out!” I said, grudgingly sharing how impressed I was.

“What cleaning service?”. His gruff, gravelly voice belied his age.

I let out another sigh, this one exasperated, and made to argue when I noticed the lovely glass of Glenmorangie Signet at my table. I can never ague when there’s Signet to consume. It’s a weakness, sue me. I took a set and breathed in it’s aroma of caramel and pecan pie, letting it assault my olfactory senses. I love scotch.

The door swung open again, this time remaining intact, and another rather large and muscular man entered. Giving the man a once over always left one impressed. A Scottish Claymore handle peeked up diagonally over his right shoulder, and the butt of his 1216 semi-automatic shotgun mimicked it on the opposite side. Two bandoleers crisscrossed his torso with various rounds, and his belt held four different kinds of explosives. An old six-shooter sat in its holster on his right hip. Both thighs wore canvas bands of throwing knives, half of them silver, the other iron, and each calf had a gigantic campy knife sheathed and strapped to it. His reinforced steel plated boots clunked heavily on the floor as he headed straight for me. One of the customers spit out his drink and ran out the back door as fast as his legs would carry him.

“John, glad you could make it!” I raised my glass to him, then took another sip.

His eyes followed the man who ran out the back but he turned back to me, unsheathed the claymore and shotgun to prop them against he wall, and took a seat. There was a 750ml bottle of ale in front of him. I hadn’t seen it arrive, but that’s Moses for you. He used the crook of his elbow to squeeze and pull out the cork, and took a swig.

“I want to shoot stuff. When do we start?”

“I haven’t even told you what we’re doing yet” I said as a smile threatened its way across my lips. His voice was softer than his build led one to expect.

“I don’t care what you’re doing. I just want to kill something”.

“Bad day?”

“Nah, just bored as shit”. He responded, scratching the stubble on his chin and downing half his beer before speaking again. “I finished up a contract over at the Court House a few days ago and nobody seem skeen to hire me. They say my methods are too bloody and I should take a break to “collect myself”. I don’t get it” he finished, shaking his head in a sort of disappointed confusion.

I thought about the Court House. With the Des Moines flipside being oriented the same way as it’s real world counterpart, most of the equivalent buildings were in relatively the same locations. Where the courthouse sits in Des Moines, the Court House sits here. The major difference, other than the Gothic architecture of this version, is that where the courthouse deals with civil cases of law, the Court House is where members of the Houses hold court. Some law is laid down there, true, but it’s also a social and political event. Anybody who thinks they’re anybody tries to be seen there and show that they were important enough to be invited.

“What I do know”, John continued, “is that I don’t have my son for another two days and I’ve got both of them off from work back home. So give me something to do. If you don’t, you know I’ll just end up over at your office playing video games, and we both know what that means”.

I remembered all right. I remembered when he got so angry at the game that he shot my Play Station with an assault rifle. He replaced it, and it was pretty funny, but still…

“Alright, here’s the low down. Cha - actually” I interrupted myself, “what all do you know about Greek mythology?”

“I don’t know, I had a class on it in high school. Emo gods who couldn’t keep their shit together or their dicks in their pants, titans, orgies, incest, war, the underworld -”

“There!” I cut him off. “The underworld. Tell me about that”. I always enjoyed the chance to make John prove he knows more than he lets on. He never went to college, and I’ve never seen him read a book or a magazine that wasn’t a video game guide, but he always seems to say things at just the right time so as to make him seem wise.

“Dead Greeks go there. Think they still do. Cerberus or whatever he’s called, the three headed dog, guards the entrance. You pay to get in, cross a river, I don’t know I wasn’t paying that much attention. I played God of War though, so I know some of the monsters. Teacher of that class was a hottie, too.”

“Well the man you have to pay to cross the river is Charon. He’s a boatman who, for a price, will ferry your soul safely across the River Styx and into the underworld proper”.

John signaled for another three beers while I was educating him, but did his best to pretend like he was interested.

“Styx is a river with currents composed of rejected souls. They try and drag down any who come too near”.

“Booooring, get to the point” he drawled.

I ignored him and kept on with my recollection. “Only Charon is capable of navigating his boat across. He was able to do this with a special Oar. The Oar is missing, adn we need to find both it and the thief who made off with it”.

He stared at me over the top of his second bottle as he emptied it. “So, what’s the catch?” he belched.

“The catch is that the building it’s in doesn’t exist and we only have twenty-four hours to retrieve it, the thief, and get them both back to Charon”.

“A building that doesn’t exist. That doesn’t sound like my kind of party Lloyd. I like waves of enemies coming at me as I slaughter my way toward a goal. I guess I don’t really need a goal for that, but I’d rather the goal exist if there’s gonna be one”. He burped again.

“If we miss the deadline” I pressed as he opened his third bottle, “the river overflows and the countless restless souls pour into the world”.

He took another swig, unimpressed.

“The case is being outsourced to us from Tresch” I finished, disappointed he didn’t appreciate the gravity of the situation.

A happy but unsettling grin slowly crept across John’s face. “Well then, cheers!” he said as he chugged the remains of his bottle.

“I’d like to help”.

“Dammit!” I let out, almost spilling the last of my Signet. “I hate it when you do that, dude!”

“Poof!” Shed added with a smirk as he took a seat where a bottle of saké waited for him. He was wearing a black jumpsuit and had only a katana strapped to his back. He was covered in dry blood. He spoke before I could perform my signature eyebrow raise.

“I just finished a contract. And it’s good for the skin”. He clicked his tongue.

“I doubt that”.

“Blood’s not the bodily fluid that’s good for the skin” John added, smirking.

Shed shrugged, drank some of his saké and changed the subject. “So, where do we start? Who knows where a place that doesn’t exist is?”

We were interrupted when one of the patrons I hadn’t recognized stumbled drunkenly into Shed. He started to apologize, then squinted, staring at the blood. He made as if to question, but Shed immediately struck the man at three different points on his body with his fingertips and the man collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Never bother Shed.

“Where were we?” he asked, turning back to us.

“Lloyd, John, Shed.” Moses said to each of us with a look. “Get out”.

“What?” I responded. In addition to always being on top of social situations, I’m also very eloquent. I knew it was a mistake the moment I finished saying it. Moses hates repeating himself.

“I said”, he paused. “GET OUT OF MY PUB!”. He spoke with a booming authority in his voice that brokered no room to withstand, regardless of the strength of my willpower. We found ourselves standing up and walking quickly to the door, despite not moving our legs on our own.

Once out of the pub we stumbled, control of our limbs finally returned to us. I slammed right into a woman with fiery red hair in an office friendly skirt and sent her sprawling to the ground.

I’m so sorry, miss…” I apologized, offering a hand to help her up. She let go of my hand quickly, turned promptly, and ran away. I have that effect on women sometimes.

“The hell just happened?” John asked.

Shed stood calmly, bushing an imaginary spec of dust off his shoulder as though dust were a problem where dry blood wasn’t, and didn't seem the least perturbed.

“I have no idea. He’s never done that before. I won-” I felt a weight in my pocket and reached in to pull out a gorgeous silver flask. I opened it and sniffed.

“Aberlour” I said aloud, and smiled. I didn’t know what Moses was thinking, but I took the scotch to-go as a sign that he wasn’t angry. Just up to something. Apparently so did the others. He’s always up to something.

“Well dudes,” said John, “where to now?”

“Lloyd,” Shed pointed to my right hand. “Your tats are glowing again”.

I looked down and saw a faint blue glow through my sleeves. I rolled up a cuff and saw the normally dark blue runes on my forearms glowing - a sign of danger. Then I noticed a tattoo on the back of my hand that I hadn’t put there. It looked like a hand-drawn arrow, coming from my wrist and pointing to my knuckles. I rubbed at it, but it was definitely in the skin, permanently.

“I don’t have a tattoo there” I said. Fast on the uptake, as always.

Shed looked off int he direction the office women had run. I sighed.

“Well, at least we have some direction now” I added, realizing this is probably why Moses kicked us out. Maybe he was trying to help, in his way.

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