The Assault on Tony's

by John O'Brien

  So the gang’s all here, was Jill’s thought as Osmond turned into the room from the stairs below, no one knowing where he’d been, what she was thinking, no one caring, all drunk, one way or another.

  Rudd began, “Okay … ,” but then paused as Osmond made his way to the bar for a drink.

  Rudd coughed awkwardly, punctuating what little rhythm he’d gained, and the whole scene took on the feel of a keynote address in some Holiday Inn conference room. Hello, my name is Rudd, would have been funny and perhaps elicited a giggle had it been spoken if not for the fact that such a situation was too far away from this new reality, too surreal and, as ridiculed and fatuous as that convention conference room may have been, too longed for. Osmond got his drink all fixed up, near the end of that line, that drink as a point, that line as a segment. He was pretty damn drunk like they all were. Hard to think about Osmond any other way than drunk. Or any of them, any other way than pretty damn drunk. Except Jill. A sort of normalcy at hand, as if one of them suddenly sober would be about as appropriate as a naked guy at a convention. Follow suit. Wear it. The shoe fits. The fit fits. We’re drunks. Were drunks. God. Heaven. The Earth. The Past. A line segment, dummy. Were drunks, getitOsmondhiccuppedordidhehiccough?

  Tink tink tink, were it only a spoon on a glass, a rumble to a murmur to … patience.

  Also sprach Zarathustra. Began Rudd: “Something is rapping on the door of our cozy little world,” while breath was held. It was weird, the way he said it, like he really was giving a formal speech. Let it go, something told him. So tone dropped, shirt and shoulders let down: “Whaddawe gonna do about all this shooting at the door lately?”

  He looked at Jill, who said, “Shoot back.”

  This was new, not so much for Jill but for the men who peered at her through their alcoholic skulls, the men who had forgotten that every world has parameters, be it a planet or a room, and guns could be used inside as well as out. The isolation of Tony’s, all the fire from outside, some directed inwardly, had changed their mindsets since the night-it now felt like years ago-that they boldly sortied forth to retrieve the ammo from their automobiles in enemy territory. That was a great night, and it led to some great drinking. That night was remarkable and tight, like the end of an act in a play; it tied things up and validated so many of the decisions that had been plaguing them like the worrisome tentacles of some bigger and badder insect clicking just beyond the doorjamb. Do I go in? Swish swish, click click: this is not a human thing. They drank that night in glee over the command they’d seized, a rule over which they might measure their own situation, ephemeral, like everything else only tighter. Wise men and there was, at that time, a plain of options spread out before them, a vanishing point that could only be approached and never touched. Light, or at least Not Dark.

  Yet though again he saw this light, Langston went, “Why?”

  “Because we have to make a stand,” said Jill.

  “Let ‘em know we’re here,” added Rudd.

  “They already know we’re here,” retorted Langston. “And I wish they didn’t.”

  “Hell, there is no they,” said Fenton. “I’d be very surprised if anybody out there has passed this door twice. There’s no organized intelligence plotting against us, no community. That’s the whole problem.”

  “Nonetheless, we might need those bullets later.”

  Now here was sobering thought, spoken finally by Langston, more frightening for the later than for the need. The later was no good. The later made everything seem useless, added an unwelcome fatalism to the drunk, a splash that diluted whatever alcoholic euphoria that was left to be had as surely as would a half can of 7-Up. The later was there, a certainty. No telling what form it would take, but it loomed nonetheless. Dry-storage held only so much liquor, and no matter how careful they were-and they weren’t all that careful-they would run out. That was one later. Tony’s was only so well armored; almost bunker-like, but a door is still a door, and there was an endless supply of knockers out there. Another later. We run out of water. We run out of food. The power is cut and winter comes. We run out of ammo. Maybe we run out of ammo because we kill each other. We all go insane. We fail to. More, another, another, and another. How about the army finally wins, does something, swoops in, rescues, rushes us all to a hospital for recuperation. Okay, wait for that. How long since anyone actually had that thought. Right, there you go: a not-possible later.

  Fuck-it-mood Rudd decided to ride the surf. “No. I’m saying how it is: We shoot back. From now on every time that door gets fired upon we answer it. We gotta do something. We gotta be something, even if it’s just a noise. At least we’ll for sure be here doing this.”

  The men fell silent, and so did Jill. For some reason-perhaps it was his blindness—there was a gravitation of glances toward Langston. He twitched in his darkness, and everybody looked away, embarrassed. But Langston twitched a lot; he was a hard man to keep drunk, keep out of withdrawals, so deep was his addiction, so towering his tolerance. Langston would go down before any of them, Rudd knew, and he would go down hard and fast, sweating, trembling, screeching at whatever a blind man thinks he sees or hears while in the throes of delirium tremens. That’s what stood at the other side of that room full of liquor down the stairs, behind all the bottles. Langston’s demise. Then Miles or Osmond, maybe Rudd himself would be second. They were all far gone, even Fenton appeared to have somehow accelerated his condition; not unreasonable under these extraordinary circumstances. Some of them might die of heart attacks-DTs had something like a twenty-five percent mortality rate, Rudd had once been told in the hospital-some of them might burn through it and get clean, though that was hard to imagine and even harder to hope for.

  For the first time in his life Rudd found himself wishing for death, hoping (praying?) that the walls came down before the liquor ran out, that they were stormed, bombed or shot in some truculent surprise attack, some irresistible force, divine intervention. This scenario was not to be their lot, their final act, and Rudd knew that. It would be too easy. Divinity-and surely even the most Divine would struggle at the idea of doling out so kind an ending-was long since a shadow for Rudd. Any god he’d ever had the opportunity to pray to had been wholly, arrogantly abandoned. Part of him regretted his past numerous and emphatic denials, but that was over. Way water-over-the-dam over. No, not Rudd. No Rudd god.

  At least they were not alone. Their militia was a paltry one, and that was okay because it still was one, armed and dangerous (to themselves?). Ready to shoot, these men. The Magnificent Seven, these men. That’s a Man son, Rudd’s dad now. These men knew fear on many levels, shooting and getting shot not among them, but much of the former would be done to protect their liquor, to be sure as much as was necessary. That holy water being the only thing worth defending. The few, the proud, the drunk. We’re looking for a Few Good Drunks. And it was with these brave thoughts they sat together drinking scotch. The Scotch Brigade. King J&B need have no fear, his defense was at the ready.

  And very drunk they did become. Even Jill joined in with a toast of scotch, not so welcome in the camaraderie. But that was okay because she had a gun and she shot the gun and she shot her Jill gun first. And the men knew that too.

  It was Miles who shot the next knocker, or so he thought ‘cause this knocker knocked only for Miles. But Miles was a myrmidon and he had his orders. Answer all fire the rule, sobeitbygoddammitillshootthefucker. Miles now. And he returned that imaginary fire as he had before with wild trajectories hitting all surfaces of their altar, improbably missing any of his cohorts. This show was not intended for Langston, who had become dead drunk and passed out some time before (now). This was for the others who were in a condition similar to Langston’s just prior to that passing out and therefore too drunk to attempt an admonishing of the extent Rudd had so authoritatively dealt before. But none of the men (or the busboy, who had come out to see what all the commotion was-was enough to wake him from one hell of a drunk as you can get on cooking s
herry and fucking a poor fat white fuck) were surprised to see Jill raise the Beretta and fire one shot which neatly pierced Miles’s shoulder and brought his inane fire to a halt.

  A silence ensued. Miles slumped onto the bar. Jill stood and walked to the ladies’ room. Langston did not move. The busboy went back to the kitchen (an erection beginning despite the half-drank hangover). Miles offered a laugh, a moan, to embellish the situation. Osmond poured more liquor for himself and Fenton, priorities dammit. Rudd, with admirable deliberation, stood and made his way to Miles. In doing so, he did not forget the J&B on the bar and a thought went with him: To sterilize (but really to drink ‘cause I’m really gonna need a drink when I see what the bitch did to my soldier) would be the thinking man’s reasoning.

  Fenton and Osmond looked away as Rudd eased the shirt from Miles’s chest. In doing so, he allowed to escape the odor of Miles which, to all but the filthiest vermin, would cause at the very least a momentary turn of the head, but not so with Rudd whose senses had long ago become indifferent to any effluvium but that of a saucy stinging waft of scotch. Jill emerged from the ladies’ room and approached Rudd and Miles with a pitcher of water (which she had noticed a disturbing yellow tinge in-not as it came from the tap but as it accumulated in the glass pitcher) and some paper towels. They all watched with not a small amount of awe as she wiped Miles’s shoulder (to little avail as the bleeding was very bad) and put her lips to his much-torn flesh and sucked quickly and effectively that bullet from him. Miles answered with a reflex and scream that sent Jill tumbling back, gasping for air while puking bullet and blood and whatever else. So Jill was forgiven even though the initial outrage-it would be termed in another reality-was somewhat superficial. Miles had endangered their safety (liquor, which was all their safety had ever amounted to) and not once but twice. Nothing was said. But this event had sobered them and more drinking was in order. Amen.

  This momentary peace (albeit internal and somewhat uncertain) was to come to an end and, even before the busboy first recognized the bombings as something more significant than the routine gunfire and firefights, the tiniest shaking of the earth around Tony’s began to have its effect on forty-some menisci in dry-storage, which began to barely oscillate. The irony of the increasingly insistent molotov cocktails was not lost on Rudd, who recognized the homemade firebombs’ nearness by the subtle sloshing of his own scotch well. The explosions were somewhere very near the rear of the building, maybe the homes just behind the parking lot? The increasing trembling of the pots and utensils was nothing compared to that of the busboy, who had taken cover under a prep table when several of the bombs hit near enough to start those quakings.

  Jill, finally shaken by the rumblings, emerged from the bathroom where she had been since administering her Last Blow (suck) Job. Rudd stood, with a definite feeling of panic. He looked at Jill, who would be the only one he could count on for real help now with Langston still passed out and no doubt near DTs upon re-entry and Miles shot and the busboy hating him. Fenton and Osmond maybe help but Jill help good.

  “I could sure use you right now,” he said to her, really meaning it and her ears lit up. Being used was something she was good at and enjoyed. “I have to trust you now Jill. I’ll get Langston and Miles under cover and you go to dry-storage and check things out.” He felt a need to stay with the men and surely the basement of this place would stand up to anything, although he felt an uneasy chuckle approach when he almost wished this was L. A. ‘cause there the buildings were built to withstand an earthquake for chrissake but L. A. was no doubt nothing but a mere cinder by now.

  Jill hesitated for a moment then, realizing she was part of the team, reluctantly recruited at that but a part nonetheless, she turned and made her way to dry-storage. She plodded down the steps thinking that things seemed pretty solid. She grabbed a flashlight and at that moment Osmond rose from his stool and headed for the men’s room. The previous bombings shook him up, shook him bad but not like this Osmond thought as he opened the stall door and

  entered dry-storage. There was some motion here but that was to be expected there had been bombs before that had caused, well, hell the whole building to be

  pulled from behind the commode a full-new-as-you-please-seal-intact bottle of 151 Ronrico Dark Rum, the very one he had

  rattled about and this was, after all, a basement. Jill squinted as the flashlight gave little help in the far corners of the tiny once adequate now inadequate room where things seemed to be okay as far as Jill could see but she would faithfully report her findings to the Captain. Had Jill’s eyes been

  appropriated from dry-storage not an hour before and caressed it in the dark, enjoying its soon to be lost virginity. The glass of the bottle was inviting and dangerous like an armed woman. Osmond cracked the seal, pausing to enjoy the slight tearing sound, and reverently raised the bottle to his lips. He kissed it and it engulfed him, swallowing him further with each gluttonous swill.

  those of a hard-core drunk, perhaps she would have been more concerned, more inclined to ensure the bottles were shielded, protected by some barrier that would heroically defend them from any harm. But this was not the case so Jill, satisfied that all was well (well, kinda funny cause dry-storage was like a real well, like well liquor), turned heel and headed back up the stairs.

  Jill and Osmond returned to the bar, Osmond back to his booth with a half bottle of Ronrico hidden beneath a towel and poorly at that but the others were too preoccupied (with bombs and bottles) to notice, and Jill with news.

  “How is it?” Fenton. Rudd looking too.

  “A little shaky, but no worse than before, I think it’ll hold-barring any serious shit.” Jill being honest, helpful.

  Fenton and Rudd had managed to drag Langston to his booth which seemed as safe as anywhere and Miles the same. The latter had been plied with much alcohol, painkiller now (an excuse they all had used at one time or another before such self-serving apologies became too transparent and wasn’t it ironic that now that very excuse was bona fide) and was nearly passed out from its intake as much as the concurrent blood loss. Osmond, in his booth now sat still, staring at the door. There was a brief threatening moment of quiet.

  The bombs began again more insistent now. They continued for what would be in real-time about a half hour, and for Fenton and Rudd it was their finest hour. Renegade heroes defending the castle and its cache. Jill too, returning fire, shooting the unseen bad guys. So taken were they with this gallery and the role playing within it that when Fenton looked to Rudd and queried, “Dry-storage?” Rudd’s response, drunken and exhilarated came, “Better a few less bottles than one less man. I need more than Jill for return fire and the others aren’t with me like you.” Rudd allowed himself to puff slightly at his own Rightness. John Wayne now, my men first.

  So Rudd Did What He Had To Do and in doing so, became gravely uncomfortable with his own self-inflicted bravado. And Rudd and Fenton and Jill returned fire and Langston remained passed out which bothered Rudd ‘cause this was one hell of a ruckus. Miles passed in and out of consciousness, whatever that was, but managed to contribute a few shots. Rudd doubted his targets were real and thought he would be better off unarmed but let it go. Osmond was in the can, scared—literally—shitless no doubt, throughout the attack, only to emerge at its conclusion and pass out (die) in his booth. The forty-some menisci continued to dance, with more vigor now and they were presently joined by the shelving, which bounced just a bit, keeping rhythm, making dry-storage a considerably lively (deadly) place indeed.

  Day17

  It is dawn at Tony’s. All of its denizens sleep. For Jill and the busboy, it is a natural state or as natural a state as one could hope for in this oh-so-unnatural New World. For the others it is a stygian blackness from which nightmarish demons issue forth, threatening them, taunting them, We’ll get you, we’ll get you. And of course they will. Even those malicious vendors of fate are dwarfed by the terror at the bottom of an empty bottle. Sleep. Some intermiss
ion.

  The damage to this worthy fortress is severe. Fubarr-ed, Rudd would have deemed the situation in his decidedly transpired youth. Wait for the curious looks before revealing the acronym, “You know-fubarr-ed: fucked up beyond all reasonable repair!” The boys would snicker and exchange furtive acknowledgments, conspiratorial with the mention of the “f” word. That game is long ago and the danger here is imminent although not in the traditional sense but in the sense that there’s precious few drops of liquor here and the prospect of finding more on the other side of that door is nothing more than pathetic. Concerning that door, there is almost nothing left of the exterior shutters. The interior shutters are wildly specked with holes through which the sun is spitting tubes of yellow light. Tony templetomb hurt bad. Mortality showing and hangin’ out all over the place.

  The busboy sleeps just outside of the door leading to dry-storage where he had taken shelter the evening before. He is kept company by broken glass and the sweet perfume smell of booze, all that’s left really, the source of the seductive scent long gone now. Jill is in the restroom, filling her last sanctuary with restless dreams whose only residue will be a troubling feeling of fear and a sheath of perspiration. The bartender continues to decay in the unfrozen freezer. Osmond, not nearly as far along in his own death, lies on the floor of the booth where he expired, organs and blood still infused with Ronrico perhaps retarding the rotting of his flesh. The front of his shirt still reeks of the 151 which left a telling stain-the very one his brothers-at-arms discovered upon rolling over his body to confirm his death and betray its real cause. That disclosure, in turn led all parties to unite and agree upon the dead man’s eternal status as a sonofabitch (envy, not anger, was what moved them to this judgment and they all knew it but this remained unsaid amongst them just the same). For Rudd, Fenton, Miles, and Langston; livers enlarge to unprecedented proportions, wounds fester and noxious breath continues in and out of the miasma that fills the interior of their lungs. So it is not that goodnight (badnight?), not yet at least. Yet.