| Tales From The Barroom; Tara Shannon 10/8/2007 | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Feb 7 2008, 06:44 PM (394 Views) | |
| Harmony | Feb 7 2008, 06:44 PM Post #1 |
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Gogz once fucked a ginger
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It’s been stereotyped that women have a lousy sense of direction, and Tara realizes that she probably is no exception. Stereotypes do have a grain of truth to them, after all. Some people fear getting lost, thinking they’re going to end up in some Blair Witch-esque horror movie scenario. Tara smiles to herself as she thinks that these are also usually the same people who wouldn’t ask a stranger for directions if their life depended upon it. As she pilots the car through the streets, she takes notice of the neighborhood around her: small storefronts, mostly family-owned places that stay stubbornly in place despite the Wal-Martification of America. A tiny tobacco store. She doesn’t even have to go inside to know the place is infused with the scent of fresh pipe tobacco, just like the kind her Grandpa McCourt used to smoke. Funny how you remember people after they die. She couldn’t tell you the color of her late grandfather’s eyes, or even what he sounded like, but the pipe tobacco is as vivid a smell as it was almost two decades ago. Tara was probably five years old when he passed away. His death was sudden: he was in the pub with his wife and some friends, had just lit his pipe and was setting up to tell a joke. Boom. They said he was dead before he hit the floor, massive heart attack. Because of the suddenness of it all, the family couldn’t afford to attend the funeral en masse, so only Moira and Seamus were going, leaving Brendan in charge. He was seventeen then, but incredibly responsible and dependable, typical eldest child. At five years old, Tara really had no comprehension of death and its implications, that the person was gone for good. She sat on her parent’s bed and watched as her mother tried to pack for the journey back to Ireland, tears streaming down as she filled her suitcase with the essentials plus traditional mourning garb. Young Tara: Ma, why are you leaving? Moira: Because your grandpa is dead, love. He’s gone to heaven. Young Tara: Can I still go visit him? Moira: Only in your dreams, love. But someday you’ll see him again in heaven. Young Tara: When will that be? Moira: God willing, not for many many years, love. Young Tara: But I don’t want to wait that long!” Moira: I’m sorry love, but it’s what God has planned. It’s not ours to question. It was at that point that Tara began to cry too, not so much out of mourning, but because she wasn’t going to be able to visit Grandpa McCourt in the way she had gotten used to. This only made Moira break down further and she had to call Colleen in to take her little sister away so she could get her packing completed. Colleen took her to the park and pushed her on the swings and told her all about Heaven: that it was a place more beautiful than anything even seen on Earth, and that everyone walked around with no pain, and always happy. It was their reward for living a good life. Young Tara: Are there doggies and kitties there too, Leeny? Colleen: Sure. Every good dog and cat go to heaven too. As they walked towards home, Colleen stopped at the Lil’ Peach and got Tara a Rocket Pop, her favorite. When they reached the house, her parents were already gone for the airport. How nice it would be to still have it be that simple. Now Brendan was gone, dead and buried, just like her grandfather, but it wasn’t a neat clean heart attack. Her brother was hunted like an animal and cut down in a dirty Roxbury alley in a barrage of bullets, by someone who thought the notion of the cop attempting to cut off his drug profits was something that needed to be punishable by death. Tara contemplates going into the tobacco shop, but decides against it. Just the sight has already brought up too many memories. She wonders if there isn’t a place where she can just sit and have a drink and write in her journal. Truthfully, Tara isn’t much of a drinker. No one in her family is, which is something against the typical Irish stereotype. Her parents always instilled a respect for alcohol in their kids, that it was something that should be enjoyed in moderation, never in excess. Growing up in the pub and seeing how some people allowed alcohol to destroy them was enough of an incentive to not be a heavy imbiber. But occasionally Tara liked to stop at some local dive and have a beer and do some writing or reading. People looked at her strangely sometimes, but so what? Rounding a corner, she sees some motorcycles parked on the sidewalk. As she comes closer she opines that this is the local dive she had in mind: weathered storefront, neon beer signs in the window. They probably wouldn’t have Guinness, but oh well. She’d make do. Zipping around another car that was idling, she parks in front of the place and goes inside, notebook under her arm. And yes, her first instinct had been correct: it was indeed a dive. Wood paneled walls, a couple of sad-looking dartboards, and a checkerboard linoleum floor. The jukebox probably hadn’t been updated since Billy Squire was popular. The lighting was typically dim, and a mushroom cloud of cigarette smoke seemed to hang around everyone in the place. She approaches the grouchy looking bartender, sporting a leather biker vest with no shirt underneath. His beer gut poked out from underneath the vest, and he could have used a good back waxing. She was a long way from Shannon’s Pub. Bartender: Whatta ya want? Tara: You got Guinness? Bartender: Gui-what? Tara: MGD, please. The bartender reaches under the bar and pulls out a damp bottle, plunking it on the Formica surface. Tara: Napkin? Bartender: What the hell for? You a klutz or something? Tara: Ooookay then. She slaps a five on the bar and looks around for a table. Spotting a small one in the corner, she takes a seat facing the door and sets down her beer and notebook. Taking a sip from the bottle, she makes a face. Tara: I hate this swill. Almost makes it not worth drinking. No sooner has she started scribbling down her thoughts when a shadow is cast across the notebook’s white pages. Looking up, she sees the more than imposing figure of Damian Cross, aka Lost Soul, looming over her. This could get interesting. Damian had been the most formidable opponent of her entire career thus far. At nearly seven feet tall with ghostly pale skin and long black hair, he was built like a veritable brick wall and had a wrestling style almost as brutal. He cut a menacing swath through most of his opponents, as she did through hers, until the two finally met to crown the new EWF Television Champion in a Barbed Wire Match. He very nearly destroyed her body, riddling it with barbed wire cuts and the coup de grace of chokeslamming her into a ring filled with thumbtacks. He also brutally battered Brendan Black, who felt the compelling urge to interject himself into the match, raising Tara’s ire in him and their then budding relationship. Damian went on to win the EWF World Title, and she the Ironman Title, and while they never became real friends, there was always a measure of respect there. She respected what he could inflict; he respected what she could withstand. Tara: Damian… Damian: Tara… Without changing expression, Damian pulls out the other chair and lowers his substantial form down onto it. He sets a glass of soda down onto the table. Tara: What brings you to this neck of the woods? Damian: Autograph signing. Tara: YOU? Doing an autograph signing? What did you do, lose a bet or something? Damian: Oh, I got fucking roped into it when I was half asleep. I wanted to go back to sleep so I said yes, I didn’t even listen to what he was saying. Tara: Well, at least you have ample opportunity to terrorize someone while you’re there. Damian: Well, it’s like I always say: The workday isn’t over until I’ve sent one small child into therapy for life. They chuckle. Damian takes a sip of his soda. Damian: So, how’s life in the big leagues? Tara: Can’t complain so far. I didn’t care for getting screwed in a title match, but I suppose them’s the breaks. Damian: That Laura Stone is quite the little hellcat. Tara: She’s got quite the sense of entitlement, that’s for sure. But honestly, I get where she’s coming from in some respects. If you’re a female in the business and remotely attractive, they’re going to try to pigeonhole you into the bimbo role. It happened to me, it happened to most of us. Laura has the problem though that she tries to be tough, but she spread ‘em for Playboy. She’s got an uphill battle. Damian: Still, she needs to not be underestimated. Tara: Dame, you should know by now I don’t underestimate anyone. Damian: I wasn’t talking about you; I was talking about the Amazon. Tara: Ah, Jessie. Damian: She still sees Laura as a nuisance and not a real challenge. That could easily trip her up, and probably will. Laura Stone is hungry, and when you have that hunger, you have someone who will dredge the depths of humanity to get what they want. You know this, though, you competed against me. Tara: Yes, and every time it rains, the pain in my back still reminds me. As he speaks, Tara notices the rounded scar on his arm. She remembers a couple years back when she first saw it. At the time it was a huge festering sore, the junkie’s calling card. Growing up near the rougher neighborhoods of Dorchester have always tipped her off. They were always the ones scrabbling frantically for metal cans to recycle, anything to finance their next fix. She remembers once in the seventh grade, she and Chris Shaughessy were out walking and spotted an older wraithlike woman shooting up in the alley behind the Lil’ Peach. She remembers how they stared in horrified fascination as the woman tightly wound a rubber hose around her arm and then reached for her needle, the look on her face eager, almost rabid. Then as the needle plunged into the vein, a small trail of blood trickled down the woman’s arm, but she didn’t seem to notice as she pushed the plunger down, filling her blood stream with the poison. As she finished, she sighed and leaned against the brick wall with an almost post-orgasmic look on her face. That was when Chris pulled Tara away. He notices her looking and one side of his mouth turns up, the closest Damian Cross ever comes to a grin. Damian: I’m clean 18 months now. Tara: I’m proud of you, Dame. Damian: It was that or die, and I wasn’t ready to die. I have too much punishment left to inflict. Tara: That’s the Damian we all know and love. Damian: How are you with the return of the Prodigal Son to your life? Tara: I would presume you mean Brendan Black? Damian: Indeed. She should have figured he’d ask. As much respect as Damian may have had for her, he did love to make her squirm on occasion, and pointed questions about her former flames always hit the mark. Unfortunately, he didn’t even know one half of her history with Brendan Black. Tara: I wouldn’t know. I’ve seen him, but not spoken to him. It’s in the past, Dame. I’m happy with Paul now. Damian takes in this piece of information thoughtfully, taking one last long draught from his soda. Finally, with nothing but shards of ice left in the glass, he sets it down on the table. He then looks at her in the same way Brendan Black used to, knowing full well that there was more behind the façade. Paul did it too, but he never pried, just loved her for who she was without trying to drag more out of her than was necessary. It was why she was so happy with him. Damian: Maybe so. But Brendan Black isn’t going to go away soon. I hope you can reconcile yourself with that. Well, I have children to terrorize, Tara. Take care of yourself, okay? With that, he turns and strides towards the door, pushing it open and heading out into the damp evening. It slams behind him hard enough to make the building shake. Tara rubs her forehead with her hand wearily, then begins to scribble in her notebook again, blocking out the world around her as best she can. |
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9:20 AM Jul 11