Larry Bolan could be mean in drink.
Whisky in particular brought out the animal in him.
He had anger issues when he was sober, let alone when the buzz of liquor was in his head. For that reason he had not touched a drop of alcohol in the last twelve years. Last time he'd downed a pint of JD, he and Trent had gone on a wrecking spree that saw three bars closed for renovation and six guys in hospital. One of the guys had never walked right afterwards and one lived on pureed meals for six months while his jaw went through reconstructive surgery. A cop took medical retirement – and gave up his dreams of fatherhood – when Larry flattened his testicles with a kick. It also got both Larry and Trent an eighteen-month stretch at the State Pen at Eddyville.
Drink had sent him inside. Drink had also killed his daddy. Larry did not drink again.
Until now.
Because the alcohol made him surly, he chose to drink alone. Down in the fancy restaurant he downed two fingers of Scotch in memory of his little brother. Then he drank another two, promising Trent that he'd be avenged. His next two fingers were just for the hell of it. After that he began to lose count.
Two fingers of whisky was nothing to a drinking man, but not many of them had fingers as thick as Larry Bolan's. He looked down at his hands. He wished he'd just throttled the hell out of the Englishman, like he'd started to do. Another squeeze and his head would have popped right off. Trent would still be alive.
'And I'd be fuckin' sober.'
Larry placed his empty glass on the counter. He lifted the bottle of imported Aberlour Scotch whisky and saw that it was empty too. Eighty dollars a bottle – Huffman would just have to dock it from the blood money he'd promised to pay for Trent. Larry looked for another bottle from behind the bar. The bar was fancy. Polished walnut. Stain-free. Not at all like the bars where Larry and Trent hung out when they were younger. He didn't recognise most of the brands of liquor arranged on the shelves. What the hell was wrong with stocking some good ol' Kentucky sour mash? He stooped down, rooting under the walnut instead.
He heard the roar of an engine.
His ears were buzzing with the Aberlour.
But he recognised the sound.
The Grand Taurino.
Raising his head level with the bar top, he squinted towards the front of the restaurant. The specially coated windows made it difficult to see outside. All he could see was a wash of blazing light.
The engine roared louder.
'You have got to be kidding me!'
The windows imploded, and the roaring Dodge followed the cascading glass, throwing aside tables and condiments and flower arrangements. The monster truck wasn't held up by the furniture; it simply smashed it aside or ground it beneath its massive tyres. It came on.
Directly towards Larry.
Slowed by the liquor, he was caught in the awkward position of rising. Left or right, he couldn't make a decision, and instead could only watch transfixed as the Dodge roared at him. The headlights were thrown to full beam and light also blazed from the rack on the cab. His hands came up in reflex, but his strength was no match for a monster truck. It smashed the walnut off its moorings, ramming the board backwards with decapitating tenacity. Larry went down amidst shattering glasses and bottles, experiencing a crushing weight that took away his senses faster than any amount of strong liquor could achieve.