Inverted AU Character Intros: 1/7
A JSE Fanfic
[These are intros for the versions of the guys for my Inverted AU! Inverted is a reverse-morality story where the good guys are bad and the bad guy—Anti—is good. These intros should help newcomers understand just how the dynamics work :) This first one is for Inverted!Chase.]
It was a bar in the rough part of town. That meant it was dimly-lit, had dirty glasses, played bad country music twenty four seven, and had pool tables that were usually surrounded by tough-looking men. The whole place was sketchy, and normally that was enough to warn off everyone but the regulars, who were the type of people who had switchblades up their sleeves and in their boots.
But, at approximately ten thirty at night, a strange man had walked in, plunked down at the bar, and ordered a whiskey. Not one to deny a customer, the bartender had obliged. The regulars, however, had given the new guy the side-eye. He looked harmless: on the thin side, brown hair tucked under a gray-and-red snap-back cap, sad blue eyes. He didn’t do anything but sit and drink. Eventually, the regulars let him be.
Hours passed. People drifted off into the darkness of night. The stranger never left from his spot at the bar. The bartender grew steadily annoyed with him, not only because he was steadily draining his supply of whiskey without any compensation, but also because the other customers were starting to get annoyed. And these customers were not the type of people you wanted to annoy, because then they tended to toss the annoyances through the bartender’s barely-repaired window.
It reached two o’clock. The bartender approached the stranger and said, “It’s closing time, son.”
The stranger looked up from his half-drained glass of whiskey. “Yer not tellin’ that to those guys, over-over there.” He waved vaguely towards a group of five men, sitting at a table in the corner. They were the only other customers.
The bartender glanced over. “They know we’re closing. But I’m not too sure you do.” In truth, the bartender would rather not talk to that group. They were here on a certain business, and he’d learned through the years that it would be better if he just left the room and let them get to it.
“Alrigh’, I’m goin’.” The stranger stood up, a bit wobbly but not as much as he should have been, considering the amount of alcohol he’d drained that night.
“Not so fast,” the bartender interrupted. “How’re you gonna pay for all of this drink?”
The stranger froze. “Pay?”
“Yes,” the bartender said, irritated. “Whiskey isn’t free, you know.”
“I…I didn’…you could pu’ it on a…on a tab, can’t ya?”
“We don’t do tabs here. If you don’t have cash, we can take credit as well.”
“Credi’ cards? In this economy?” The stranger leaned forward. “You think that a-a person like me, drowning in my studen’ loans, would have a credi’ c-card?”
“Well, do you have cash then?” The bartender snapped.
“I loved her, y’know…” The change of subject was accompanied by the stranger slamming the palms of his hands on the surface of the bar. “Damn, I did. I dropped i’all for her, for the kid we werr gonna have…An’ we werr hap-happy for a long time…and then that bitch decided she didn’ wanna deal with my issues anymore, an’ I told her wha’ would happen, oh I warned her, an’ she didn’t lis’en, and she left!” The stranger shook his head, and growled, “Well, I hope she enjoyed what she got, enjoyed wha’ vidyo I sen’ her, because then she’ll come righ’ back, an’ she’ll realize I still want her back an’ that it’s-it’s where werr s’posed to be.”
The bartender took a step back, a little disturbed. The odd mixture of anger and longing in the stranger’s voice was simply…unnerving to listen to. “Son, you still need to pay.”
“Wha’? No, no, no I jus…I jus’ told you why I couldn’! I’m inna bad place righ’ now, please, jus’ take a li’ll sympathy. I can pay ya back later…please?” The shift in his tone was subtle, but noticeable. The wide eyes, the tremble as he talked…he was clearly trying to appeal to emotion.
Too bad this bartender had met people like him before. Too many, in fact. “Son,” the bartender said in a stern tone. “You have three choices: pay up right now, come in the back to wash dishes, or let me call the police.”
The stranger’s eyes widened, like he couldn’t believe he’d failed. Then he leaned back. His hand went to his side. “Alrigh’…I choose the fourth one.” He raised his hand again, and pointed the thing he held at the bartender.
Hastily, the bartender put his hands up. “S-sir, put down the gun. I’ll drop the cost, promise.”
“Pu’ down the gun?” The stranger thought about it. “Nah.”
BANG!
The five men in the corner all stood up in unison. They didn’t run over to the bar, instead they walked slowly, confidently, on a V formation. The leader looked down at the stranger, leveling him with a menacing stare. “You just cost us a safe haven to meet,” he said in a low voice. “You’re gonna have to come with us.”
The stranger shook his head. “No, I don’…don’ think so.”
“We’d rather not make any more stains on the floor, if you mind,” the leader growled. Behind him, the other four shifted, reaching into pockets and below jackets.
The stranger laughed. “Dude, y’think I care abou’ where I die? Nah. I’ll be goin’ downstairs any way ya slice it.”
“Very well.” The five men advanced. The stranger raised his gun.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
A few moments later, Chase sat on the sidewalk outside the bar. Sometimes he wondered how Jackie had any trouble with these guys. Only two of them had been carrying guns. He’d been quick, even in his current, ah, state of mind. Tolerance came with advantages. And then, with the remaining three…well, there was a reason they said to never bring a knife to a gun fight.
Chase took his phone out of his pocket, opened up his contact list, and selected a single name. He dialed the number. On the other side of the line, the phone rang, and rang, and went to voicemail. Chase rolled his eyes. He was probably asleep, but whatever. He could wake up for this. It took three more attempted calls before somebody finally picked up. “Hey, Jack?” Chase said. He began playing up his slur. “C'n you…c’n you come pick me up? ’M at 342 Whittenburg…yeah, I was, why does’t matter?…really? you’d le’ me walk home, on my…on my own? I dun rem’ber the way…nah, dun haf cash…thanks, dude, yer the-the best. ‘M outside, dun need to go in.” With a click, he hung up.
This had been a good night.