The heavily-sprung solid oak door resists my passage and the ill-maintained hinges creak and groan in concerted protest as I force my way in. A thick haze of smoke hangs in the air assaulting my eyes as soon as I enter. The particulate stew of combusted tobacco and weed distinctly evident to even the most challenged of olfactory senses. Soft, yellow light glows from oil lamps and a half-dozen candle-powered sconces that adorn the walls. The air is stale and humid and I don't intend to spend much time here. The sooner I get out of here the better. The bar patrons are occupied with their drinks and conversation and seem to completely ignore my arrival.

I release the door and it slams home with weighty authority and a resounding bang. Three patrons at the bar turn and glare. The barkeep looks up and addresses me directly, "Hey asshole, mind the fucking door!"

Welcome to the Lager Haus, I think to myself.

I nod and wave back my weak non-verbal mea culpa as I approach the bar. The last patron to turn back to his drink is a beleaguered-looking Jake. Sitting down on the stool, I place my elbows on the heavily varnished barnwood bar and turn to Jake, "How you doing? Everything okay?"

His reply is nothing more than a grunt, then he takes a drink and stares into his glass.

"I thought we were coming here together. Went to your place, Heather said you left hours ago."

" So what?" He snorts.

"So. So we had a plan jack-ass. That's what. It's an hour walk."

"What do you want Connor? I'm here right? Don't get your tits in a twist," he says and drains his glass which he then bangs on the bar before holding it up toward the barkeep.

"Jesus. How much have you had."

"Don't worry about it. I'm good, settle down and have a drink."

The barkeep pours more golden liquid into Jake's glass before turning to me, "Whaddya want?"

"What are my options?"

"You can drink or get the fuck out," the barkeep fires back.

I throw my hands up in futility. "Really?"

"Look man, we got shitty beer, shitty wine and whisky. Now what do you want?"

"Is the beer cold?"

"Fuck no."

"Whisky." I say, but it's a disappointing choice because after that walk I could really go for a cold beer, even a shitty one.

"So how is Heather?" I ask, turning back to Jake. He's holding the glass in both hands staring into the bottom as he swirls the liquid. I see a man who's conscience is getting the better of him. Like an animal trapped in a cardboard box, incessantly scratching to get out. I know that rabid, fervent scratching all too well, I have plenty of my own trapped animals. He never does answer me. I leave it alone. Sleeping dogs, and all that.

The barkeep plops a glass on the bar that I suspect has, at best, only received a cursory rinse since its last use. He then grabs the whisky and pours. I hope to hell the booze kills whatever latent microbes are living in that glass.

"Anything on the menu?" I ask.

"Just stew."

"I'll take it. I'll go find a table."

Jake is clearly not the best company at present so I leave the bar in search of a free table. Finding one near the staircase, I take a seat with my back to the wall. A young girl leans seductively against a rough-hewn post nearby, she wears far too little clothing and far too much make-up. It nearly conceals her black-eye. Nearly.

"Here for business or pleasure?" she says, turning toward me with a coquettish grin. She's likely not much more than fourteen. Her breasts are pushed up and on display thanks to the underwire bra and plunging neckline of her skin tight top and below the waist a pair of skinny legs protrude from what can only be described as a skirt by definition. I'm suddenly thankful I have a son.

"Not interested." I say.

"Fucking queer!" she hisses and marches off toward another table.

I shake my head and sigh and try to forget the encounter despite how disturbing it is to be propositioned by children.

The stew follows shortly, it comes in a large bowl and has a surprisingly pleasant aroma.

"Smells good," I say to the waitress. She doesn't reply and instead just stares at me expectantly. I plop a couple shotgun shells on the table. "How's that?"

She picks them up, looks them over and puts them back on the table. "No reloads," she says. "We take lux," she adds, referring to the new, apparently semi-official local currency. I have no lux.

I purse my lips and pull a pistol magazine from my belt and thumb out three .45 calibre rounds on the table, ammunition has value that exceeds hard currency and people are rapidly coming to realize that. She shifts her weight from side to side and looks down at the table and then back at me.

"Okay, hold on," I say and reach into my pocket and pull out a fresh pack of cigarettes, still in the cellophane. Her eyes light up immediately. I open the fresh pack, carefully draw out two cigarettes and place them next to to the bullets. She scoops my payment off the table and leaves without another word.

The bowl is nearly too hot to handle, so I stir and blow, and stir and blow. When I'm not cooling my stew by self-induced hyperventilation, I'm taking measured sips of my whisky. When I'm not doing that, I'm scanning the entire bar. First I'm looking for threats, because anymore those seem to be ever-present. Second I'm looking for someone who I am supposed to meet. Unfortunately I have no idea who this guy is and although Jake has arranged the meeting, I'm not sure Jake gives a fuck at present.

"Hey, Mr. Killoren," a familiar voice rings out from the stairs behind me that lead to the brothel operation on the second floor.

No even turning my head I say, "hey Danny, what brings you here?" Although the reason seems patently obvious considering where he's coming from.

"Oh, we got a couple missing girls from the Towers, Dennis sent me downtown to see if I could get a line on them. This is my first stop, that sleaze upstairs will snatch up any young piece of ass he can."

"Well? Any luck?"

"Big guy up there told me to fuck off and mind my own business, that's as far as I got. Hope those girls aren't here, this isn't a good spot to end up."

It is almost physically painful when Danny's moral compass aligns with my own. At first I thought it was all an act, since I was pretty much ready to kill the little bastard, but not only is he genuinely apologetic for the incident with Heath, but I have to begrudgingly admit he's not the evil hell-spawn I want him to be. He also refuses to call me anything other than Mr. Killoren. He claims it's out of respect. Jesus.

"Have to admit, a bit surprised to see you here Mr. Killoren."

"Just meeting someone."

"Oh yeah? Who?"

"Honestly Danny, I'm not entirely sure. Jake set it up, Mickey someone."

"Mickey? Mickey-fucking-Trout?" Danny blurts out.

"Uh, yeah, come to think of it, that sounds familiar. You know him?"

"No, hell no, I don't know him. But I've heard of him. Everyone's heard of him"

"Why do I get the feeling that I'm missing some key information?" Clearly I'm not everyone.

"I can't believe you haven't heard the story about Mickey Trout, I mean, you two are like the same."

"How so?"

"He's a fucking legend--I mean you both are. The GFA, that whole battle up in Rose River, Mickey was there too."

"And?"

Danny pulls out a chair and sits down across from me. "Can I bum a smoke," he asks, looking at the packet on the table expectantly.

"Help yourself," I reply, pushing the pack toward him.

"Okay, this is what I know," he begins and lights up. "Mickey and his family were up in Rose River when the GFA invaded. His family was right downtown in the thick of it, but Mickey was somewhere else, like running an errand or something. So all this shit goes down and he finds out his wife and kids are basically caught, umm... what's the word? You know, on the wrong side of town, with the bad guys."

"Behind the lines?"

"Yes. Yeah, they are like stuck at a relative's apartment or something. So Mickey, who is like a Green Beret--"

"Wait, Mickey is a Canadian Green Beret?" I say, incredulous, since I'm pretty sure the Green Berets are an American unit.

"I don't know, that's how the story goes, like a black ops guy or some-shit."

"You sure about this story?"

"I'm just tellin' it like I heard it, man," Danny explains, a bit exasperated. He takes a quick drag and blows the smoke away from me out of courtesy.

"Okay, okay, continue," I say, urging him to get back to his manic tale, waving his cigarette madly as he goes. Danny had reportedly gotten that monkey off his back, so I'm hoping he's just hand too much coffee or something.

"So Mickey, he fights through the lines to get back downtown. Killing GFA motherfuckers left and right, like for hours man. He's running 'em down with stolen cars, beating them with garden tools and tearing them apart with his bare hands. Like a fucking viking berserker. When he finally makes it to his family, they're all fucking dead. Slaughtered by those GFA fucks. Mickey goes ballistic. Total rampage, killing every GFA he can find. Somehow, he makes it back here. But now he prowls the Blood Fields, getting even with any GFA soldier who crosses his path. Pure rage. "

"Interesting."

"Yeah, Carlos says this guy is a bad motherfucker. Hgh praise from Carlos," Danny adds.

"Well, I suppose we all have reputations," I say.

"I guess he lives out on a farm or something, way outside of town. Keeps to himself though. I don't know of anyone who has seen him. Just stories."

"Maybe the whole thing is a story," I suggest.

"Maybe, I guess. Hard to tell. Anyway, I gotta jet," Danny says pushing a folded piece of paper across the table. "You see those girls, get them back to the Towers if you can, 'kay?"

"I'll see what I can do."

Danny cuts through the tables and leaves through the creaky oak door, which slams loudly after him.

"Mind the fucking door!" someone yells.

I give my stew a thoughtful stir and take a bite. I get a salty mouthful of meat and vegetables. Despite the meat being a bit chewy, the overall flavour isn't entirely unpalatable, so I take another bite.

Unfolding the piece of paper, I discover a pencil sketch of two young girls. The portrait is incredibly detailed. Good looking kids, young and innocent, the sad reality of it is, they'll be trafficked in no time if Danny doesn't track them down. And just like that, suddenly Danny is the good guy. Jesus.

I'm about to take another bite when Jake dismounts his stool with an uncharacteristic lack of grace and walks over with a hint of drunken weave. "It's time," he says.

Jake leads me to the back of the bar where the floor plan cuts to the left forming a L-shape. A man sits in the back corner, near the men's room. There's a pool table back here and a couple dormant video games. Dart boards line one wall, some still with darts stuck in them, leftovers from another era. It is even more poorly lit than the front of the bar, but I think that is the point.

A small oil lamp on the table casts unfavourable shadows on the man's weathered face. He looks me over, as I do him. His bare, tattoed forearms ripple with sinewy muscle, like he's carved from wood. He's wide in the shoulders, and he wears a John Deere hat pulled low over his eyes. His stubble is peppered with gray and he sports a formidable moustache. I can't tell the colour of his eyes but they have a piercing intensity. Predator eyes. Now I believe almost everything Danny said about this guy and he's yet to say a word.

There's a well-worn lever-gun leaning in the corner just behind him, .30-30 if I had to guess. Although I can't see for the table, I bet there is a sidearm nearby as well. Legend notwithstanding, I instantly get the feeling I am in the company of a dangerous man.

"Connor, Mickey, Mickey, Connor," Jake blurts out rapidly without warning and plops down into a chair.

"Special forces ain't what they used to be," Mickey replies with a sideways look at Jake.

"Fuck the forces," Jake snorts.

Mickey's hand shoots out like a striking snake and snatches Jake by the wrist. He yanks Jake's arm over and inspects it.

"What the fuck?" Jake yells scrambling awkwardly to regain his arm.

"Tattoed over it didn't you?" Mickey says releasing Jakes arm. "You can almost make it out if you know what to look for."

"Fuck off," Jake replies and stands from his chair. "You deal with this asshole, I'm done here," he says and storms off knocking over a couple chairs as he departs.

"Facta non verba," Mickey calls after Jake as he departs, Jake gives him the bird without turning around. "Your friend has some issues," he adds, turning to me.

"Well, you kinda pissed him off."

"Know him well do you?"

"Well enough."

"You certain of that? Tell me, what do you know about your friend Jake?"

"He's a good man to have in a fight," I say.

"That's probably true," Mickey says. "How long have you known Jake?"

"I guess about a year now," I say.

"Hmm. That's not very long, as friendships go."

"Look, I'm here for a gun, either we do business or I walk, up to you. I'm not interested in a prolonged dissection of my relationship with Jake," I say, although, I often wonder about Jake as there is definitely more to him than is immediately evident.

"Suit yourself, let's get down to brass tacks," he says and heaves himself out of his chair, grabs his gun and walks to the back door of the establishment. "Better to complete our exchange outside the confines of this shit hole, if you don't mind," he says, collecting his rifle.

Now that he is standing, I see I was correct in my assumptions, he wears a thigh rig, not unlike mine. But where I wear a 1911, he instead sports a Glock. I now see that his rifle is in actuality a Savage model 99, which makes me second guess the calibre as being something with a little more punch than a .30-30.

"I don't mind," I reply. "I just want to get this over with, I have things to do."

"Don't we all," Mickey replies. He walks to an exit door, I follow closely behind and seconds later we are standing in an alley that is just wide enough for a single car. The air is close and only slightly cooler than inside the Lager Haus, I would like to say it smells better, but there is a pile of discarded refuse nearly my height just off to the side near the exit that is emitting a rather putrid odour. It's a clear night and a three-quarter waxing moon rides high above our heads providing the sole source of illumination. There is nothing romantic about a stinking pile of garbage awash in silvery light however.

Mickey walks over to a small SUV-- looks like a Geo Tracker or something of that ilk. It is shod with a larger set of offroad tires than that which would come stock and the thing is entirely caked with thick clay-laden mud. From all appearances I reckon it has been driven through a sodden field in recent days.

"Looking for a carbine then, right?" Mickey says, opening the back hatch of the SUV. He throws back a dirty blanket revealing a pile of no fewer than twenty guns along with a couple milk crates of accessories.

"Yeah. I've been talked into it."

Mickey pulls out a familiar wood-stocked Russian rifle, "SKS?" he asks. "Reliable, hits hard. Can't go wrong really."

"I was thinking more like an AR-15," I say.

"The black rifle, huh? Let's see what I got," he says and rummages through the pile. He takes a small flashlight from his belt, clicks it on and clamps it between his teeth. Soon enough he finds what he's digging for. "D-I or piston?"

"You've got me there, I'll have to defer to your expertise."

"Geez, your pal Jake should be out here to give you some tips."

"Yes, he should. But I don't think that is going to happen, so perhaps you can just furnish me with something that shoots when I pull the trigger."

"Well, son, that would be the SKS, or if I had one, an AK derivative--shoots all damn day, won't ask for much in return. Any black rifle I give you will do the same if well-maintained, you capable of that? You seem like an educated man."

"That should not be a problem."

"Alright then, I got just the gun for you. Sixteen inch barrel, iron sights, but has a rail if you can find an optic for it. It's direct impingement, but reliable as the day is long if well-cared for, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Close quarters, the SKS might have a slight advantage, and I'm talking under twenty meters. A hundred and beyond, the AR is your gun. Run it wet, ask Jake, he'll clue you in when he's in a better mood."

"Magazines? Ammo?" I ask.

"I'll throw in two mags, full up - that's sixty rounds. You want more, you'll have to drum them up yourself."

We spend another ten minutes haggling over price. When all is said and done I end up with a third magazine, some webbing and magazine holders and a tool to help load the mags. But I've emptied my entire pack in the process. I've traded away two bottles of good booze, including a bourbon I'm fond of, a carton of smokes, a large bag of cannabis, a box of protein bars and a water filter that wasn't meant to be traded.

Mickey opens the door to the SUV and takes a seat, I know notice in the dim glare of the small dome light the apparent military nature of the tattoos that grace his muscular arms. I can make out one that says HMCS-something-or-other, another is a maple leaf with a trident through it. I reckon he's navy, or was. Briefly, I wonder if the Navy still exists in any capacity.

"Just how do you know Jake?" I ask before he starts the diminutive truck.

He thinks for a moment, "we had the same employer once," he says. "If you want to know more than that, you'll have to ask Jake." With that he shuts the door and turns over the engine which sputters to life with a rattle. I step away as he begins to reverse down the alley. He stops for another moment and rolls down the window. "The world is all killers and victims now, watch your back."

"I have no intent of being a victim," I reply.

"That's not the group I would put you in, and that is exactly why you need to watch your back. Oh, and don't eat the stew, it's made with dog meat."

I involuntarily gag a bit as I watch the tail lights of Mickey's crappy SUV to the end of the alley where they make a right turn and disappear. An owl hoots in the distance and I take that cue to stuff the magazines into my pack and sling my new carbine. It's not as light as I expected. I head back to the bar where the air is slightly less putrid and the company slightly less enigmatic.

My new rifle dangles awkwardly from a single-point sling, the barrel bumping my knees as I walk, I would guess some adjustment is necessary. I find Jake back at the bar, he appears to be in a heated discussion with some new patrons--Pelex Security people. Jake is gesticulating wildly and spewing out slurred expletives at the nearest Pelex guy.

"Hold on, hold on, hold on," I say loudly as I hurry up to the bar, already in damage control mode. Immediately I position myself between Jake and the object of his ire. "C'mon Jake, we don't need this right now. Time to go."

"To hell withhhhat," he slurs as I guide him off his stool. "I'm not done."