Notice: This work is Copyright © 2003 by Simba Wiltz. This story may not be sold or used for commercial profit in any form or fashion, modified in any way, posted on a mirror site or any other Internet site without the written permission of the author. This story may not be distributed on print, magnetic, electrical or optical mediums.  This story is an independent work of fiction, and any similarities to other events or stories are coincidental.

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    Don't get me wrong, I don't have a problem with people. Heck, I even like people to an extent. I'm a person, after all. We're a strange species to watch—all our little idiosyncrasies add up to what could amount to a hilarious sitcom if you were observing on another planet. I suppose that makes me somewhat of a people-watcher. People-watching is all fine and good, but you're not going to find a thicker den of insecurity and self-loathing than you will at a bar. Nothing breeds conflict like insecurity and self-loathing.

    My seat is somewhat removed from the rest of the milling mass. I'm pretty tall, but this stool is a bit high even for me. The bar is made just right though, adequately rising to a comfortable leaning level for the seated. It's got a smooth mahogany finish, my favorite kind when it comes to wood, and fluorescent lights under a stubby ledge that add a neat blue glow against the carpeted side panel. The flat portion of the bar itself is inlayed with marble that probably fell off a boat somewhere and ended up in here. Before me is a small faux crystal glass of no real value except that it's holding my cognac at the moment. I've had it in front of me for the last hour or so, but as I said before, drinking is secondary to people watching.

    I consider myself an expert watcher, but strangely enough there are times when events take on the appearance of getting out of hand. Take, for example, this individual walking toward me now. He's about 6'2", probably bordering two hundred pounds, give or take ten. By the numbers, he's not much larger than I am, only four inches and only ten or thirty pounds heavier, given the estimate. I'd guess that we're built about the same too—too thick to be considered thin, too slim to be considered really muscular. In another situation, he'd probably not be approaching me at all, but tonight he's got his friends with him and it doesn't take a people-watcher to see the false bravery of four versus one. I sip my drink and watch him approach.

    "What the fuck have you been staring at all night?"

    Brusque words, I thought. The polite thing would be to clarify to make sure that we are on the same page. "What are you talking about?"

    "You know what the fuck I'm talking about, motherfucker." He's got a fake street slang accent which I find an interesting character quirk. Outside of this situation, he'd probably not use it or even sound just like any other person. He wasn't done with his tirade, however. "You been staring down my girl in the booth over there and I don't appreciate that."

    "All apologies," I said. It's amazing how much politeness squicks these types. It's as if you're brushing them off as just another ordinary person. Or worse. I sipped my cognac to emphasize my dispassion.

    "All apologies?" He mimicked, snorting and looking at his 'boys'. "All apologies? You just shut the fuck up or I'm going to kick your fuckin' ass all over this goddamn place. All apologies…sheeeit."

    The area immediately surrounding us got a little quieter—a sure sign that our interchange was being observed. It's a human instinct that we pay attention to loud noises—especially when aggressive posturing is taking place as it was with this individual and his friends. It seldom matters to me; after all, an audience can sometimes make the play all the more interesting. I sipped my drink again. It was the least I could do to mask the smile growing on my face. "I don't think you want to do that." I said this in a soft voice, just enough such that he could hear it.

    "Excuse me?!" He said, taking the bait and stepping closer to get in my face. "Who the fuck do you think you are? You don't know me! I'll fuck you up! You don't know me!"

    "On the contrary," I said, turning to face him to look him in the eyes. "Your name is Marcus Brown. You live in Keystone Apartments, 144 Greystoke Avenue on the third floor, apartment 32B. You have a wife of three years, who you've been cheating on for the last four months with Ms. Garret over there. The only reason you're standing up here is to prove your fake tough guy cover to her because you know it turns her on when you talk tough in bed, and makes it easier for you to fuck her because you know you can't keep it up very long—a situation, I'm sad to say, has been brought on by being sexually abused by a nun in the fourth grade when you still were a good little Catholic boy."

    At this point Marcus' eyes were so huge that he was unable to keep them from tearing up. I hate spilling someone's life out in front of his boys, but I dislike attempts to intimidating me more. He should consider himself fortunate that I saw fit to say this only to the immediate area and not loud enough for the rest of the bar to hear.

    "Oh fuck man—" one of the guys hanging back with him said.

    "How--?" Marcus stammered, "How the fuck can you--?"

    "Know all that? Mm, somehow I don't think that's important, Mr. Brown. But I do know this. You, Jarred Pinoche, Jack Bryson, Brian Taylor, and 'Smokey Dog' (born Eugene Morlan) want to turn around, walk back to the booth and pretend that we never met. Elsewise, I'm going to take that knife that Mr. Taylor has been trying to hide from the bouncer and expose the inside of your throat to the air." I sipped my drink again. Damn it's hard to keep a grin down when you're really dusting someone off.

    The guys in the group were the first ones to back down. "Shit man," 'Smokey Dog' said, "I'm outta here. This guy ain't worth our time."

    Good save. I thought. Try to play it off like they weren't just mentally fucked in the ear with a ten inch black rubber dildo.

    "Com'on bro," Brian said, giving Marcus' jacket a tug backward to join the others. "This punk ain't got nothin'."

    Marcus eventually started stepping backward, looking at me as if he'd just walked in on his elderly parents going down on each other. In an instant, I could see it all—his fear, his ego, his confusion—bubbling over onto the floor like the head of a badly made beer. "Yeah—" he managed, "and don't do it again!" He said, turning to go back to his booth.

    I smiled and took another sip of my drink. Even as they tried to slip back into what they were doing before meeting me, I could tell that there would be a sizeable tension marking the rest of their night. It's no fun watching people when they suddenly become aware that they are being watched, so I decided it was time to go. I downed the cognac and flipped a twenty onto the bar for the bartender. The guy had been kind enough to give me a clean glass—and who knows when I'd be back here anyway? Pulling my coat around my shoulders, I proceeded out of the bar and into the cold weather.

    The encounter left me chuckling puffs of steam all the way home. It never fails that some tough guy tries to throw that tired line 'you don't know me' as if that were some kind of deterrent to their onslaught. Such conflicts are boring, just as they were boring to me the first time. That's the way it goes when you encounter prime examples of insecurity and self-loathing.

    At this point you might be asking yourself how I knew so much about this guy? Am I a spy? An assassin? And how do I know his associates? Am I watching him because I want to do something to him? Perhaps have plans to get some kind of twisted revenge later on? The answers to all your questions are simple and straightforward: No. Before that night, I never met Marcus or any other members of his entourage. Before that night, the bartender had not told me that he kept a handgun pasted under the spot in the bar where I chose to sit. But when the situation arises, the information necessary is always there for me to draw on. It's not premonition and it's not mind reading. It's something else—something that you may begin to understand in time.

    My name is Thavius Kharne, and I know everything.