Nonentity Read Online Free PDF Page B

long, black, and greasy. There were red splotches on his face. Smelling like a brewery, he was in the right venue.
    I said to Lawrence, “What was that?”
    “Your brother. I knew him.”
    “I can’t comment on that. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
    “You and me both, man,” said Lawrence. “The last ten places have all been mysteries.”
    I ignored him.
    He said, “Your brother was one of us – until they got him. Just like they got your father. Just like they’ll get you. Just like they’ll get me. Just like they’ll get every damn one of us.”
    “I’m sorry, but can you please just act like I’m not sitting next to you? I’m quite confused right now and you’re not improving the matter.”
    “What’s the deal? Don’t care to think about ol’ Hagen Flemming?”
    “No,” I said. “I haven’t seen Hagen since our mother died. He’s not someone I wish to think or talk about.”
    “Why not?”
    “I just don’t want to. Hagen was never a big part of my life.”
    “Sounds like a guilt complex if you ask me.”
    “I didn’t ask you,” I said.
    “Fair enough, man. I’m sure you harbor a lot of pain from your childhood that you haven’t resolved. Your brother is probably a major part of that.”
    “And what the hell are you, some kind of amateur psychologist?”
    Lawrence did not react to my question. He banged his fist on the bar in front of him. “Bartender! Where’s that goddamn beer you were supposed to bring me? How’s a lush like me supposed to stay good and properly pissed with such lackluster service?”
    I glanced away, displeased. Lawrence Alister only added to the uncertainty of the scenario. Even most of his friends in the underground did not trust him. And I was no friend. I had read a handful of the unfocused screeds that he passed off as serious commentaries. His writings dripped with unintelligible zealotry. His underground code name was Drunken Furor – ill-advised, due to its accuracy.
    The bartender was a muscle-bound bald man. A sleeveless t-shirt exposed tattoos covering his arms. Leathery face seething, the bartender came over to Lawrence.
    “Hey asshole,” said Lawrence with a cocky smile, “ever stop to consider how much better your tips might be if you actually gave a shit?”
    The bartender said, “Ever stop to consider how much shorter your existence might be if you keep fucking with people twice your size?”
    “Never crosses my mind.”
    “Very little crosses your mind. I don’t care that you’re sauced out of your head. That’s your problem. But I demand respect. When I don’t get it, bad shit happens.”
    “Stop pontificating and get me a beer. Think you can do that, you oafish boar?”
    The bartender grabbed Lawrence by the collar. “I’ve had just about enough of your horseshit. One more wisecrack and I’ll knock you into next week.”
    I arose from my stool. “Gentlemen. Please! Violence won’t get you anywhere. Why not settle this with good faith and civility?”
    “Good faith and civility?” the bartender said, pointing a thumb at me. “Who the hell is this clown?”
    “My name is Sebastian R. Flemming the Third.”
    “Yeah right. And I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
    Lawrence said, “Show Mr. Flemming some of that same respect you demand for yourself. He won’t stand for your dimwitted ridicule.”
    The bartender released his grip on Lawrence and shot me an icy glare. “Is that so? Care to back up what your pal just said?”
    “He’s not my pal. Look, I don’t want any trouble. Let’s just …”
    “Ah, don’t go wishy-washy on me, Sebastian,” said Lawrence. “This mindless behemoth made a joke at your expense. Don’t allow …” He burst into inexplicable laughter.
    The bartender laughed as well. “Damn it, Lawrence. We really had this guy going for a minute there. He looked like he might piss his pants.”
    “Sebastian,” Lawrence said, “meet Bruce Klein. He’s a jolly old bastard, uglier than