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pan6467 · 07-09-2005, 01:07 PM

Jack Dillon walked into the sparsely lit beach shack of a bar and looked around. The people in here were not tourists, they were the ones who society turned their backs on, the drunks and the burnouts, who for whatever their reason dropped out of life and came here to escape the real world.

"Hi there 'tender. Do you have a Dr. Pepper and maybe some peanuts?" Jack asked as he sat on a well worn barstool.

"I got booze." Said the bartender in a voice that had smoked way too many cigarettes. The Bartender stood about 5 foot 9 and weighed probably 250 pounds, most of which appeared to have been muscle that he allowed to turn to flab.

"I'll take a water then."

"I told ya, I just have booze. Water, and anything else is just used as mixers," said the bartender as he glared suspiciously at Jack. "Now either you buy booze and mind your business like everyone else in here or I ask you to leave."

The bartender looked over Jack's shoulder and nodded. Jack looked to see a man in the corner, leaning his chair against the wall. He had a well worn fedora covering his face patted at his left shoulder, which harnessed a pistol.

"Now, sir you either order or my friend there takes you for a walk down the pier."

"Sorry, didn't know house rules," said Jack, as he laid out 10 crisp $100 bills. "I'm just here to meet up with an old friend and to have a drink. I'll take a Bacardi and pineapple juice."

The bartender smiled and turned away to pour the drink, "now you're talking. Who's your friend, I may know him."

"Phil Andrews, he runs a little sloop around these parts called the "Rusted Tiger". Know him?"

The bartender stopped pouring and looked at Jack's reflection in the mirror. Jack saw the bartender's hand slowly reaching for a revolver he had not very well hidden between bottles.

"Why are you looking for him?"

"I'm an old friend of his from 10-15 years ago. Just want to see how he's been."

"He ain't got no friends. The man is a hermit and keeps to himself. He hurts noone and noone bothers him."

The bartender whirled around with gun in hand. Jack could tell the bartender was nervous and not one to truly know how to use a gun. Jack could handle him, but the man in the fedora stood up with his pistol, in unshaking hands with the look of a man that has killed for fun, Jack knew he better talk fast.

"Ok man, look, I'm just from the record company and they sent me down here to talk to him about reforming the band and maybe trying to go out for one last show."

The bartender put his gun down and smiled. Jack looed back into the corner the man in the fedora was sitting again, his feet propped up on the table.

"Why didn't you say so. I been talking to him, trying to get him back out there since he started coming in. Hell, I loved his music and the band. Thing is he comes in on Sundays, plays his set and disappears for the next week."

"So you have no idea how to get a hold of him? We need him in L.A. tomorrow."

"Nope, but if I were someone hiding, I'd choose that little sandbar bout 20 miles due East. It protects a cove and only someone truly desperate to hide would find a way past that sandbar and get into the cove."

"Thanks." Jack said as he stood up to leave. He pushed the bills towards the bartender. "Keep the change."

"Sure thing, good luck man. He's a talented fuck that needs a true audience not these dregs."

Jack left, thinking how good that Rum would have tasted and how easy it had been to order it. "10 years of sobriety and I could have blown it in 20 seconds," he said to himself.

Jack walked with purpose to the touring company with the island's only helicopter.

"Need to go pick someone up."

"Sure, mon." said the man behind the counter in a Jamaican voice. "Where will be picking up this person."

"A cove 20 miles due East."

"That's some hazardous area mon. Wind sheer that will tear apart my chopper, I'm not sure I can do that. Even if we do make it, there isn't much of a place to set down."

"I'm willing to pay 10 grand for the ride there and 50 when you bring us back. Would that be enough to cover any wind sheer damages?"

"Right on, let's go."

The helicopter was old and looking in need of repair. Jack followed the tour guide pilot into the ride and buckled in. After a rocky takeoff the ride was fairly smooth. As the pilot pointed to the cove, the turbulence from the wind started to rock the airship.

"You can do this?" Jack asked, a little fear in his voice.

The pilot just smiled as he steered towards a well kept and very nice looking yacht. The pilot landed smoothly on the yacht's helipad and Jack got out.

There was a man standing alone on the deck, the sun behind him so that it made it difficult to see his face.

"Jack, old friend," the man said walking towards him. "I've heard about the others getting together in L.A. Friday and I figured they would send you."

The man turned out to be Phil Andrews. Jack walked towards him and gave him a welcome hug.

"Phil, good to see you. So you're coming then?"

Phil laughed. "I don't think I want to record another album, Jack. J.C. and his sister set me up, they took everything I publicly had and thought they left me with nothing. But such is life."

"Then if you knew I was coming why didn't you run? You know that by midnight Friday your contract is officially over, I think you could have hid till then."

"Jack, my friend I'm tired of running. I like you Jack I wanted to tell you no face to face."

"But we have the Sandels, and we even have Sean."

"How is Michael? You know he was a great friend from the beginning all the way through the bitter end. He's a good man." Phil said glaring out at the sea.

Before Jack could answer Phil continued, "Let me tell you a story Jack and if you honestly could go back and be with those guys then...... well.... I'll go."

"You have a deal, Phil"

07-09-2005, 01:07 PM	#5 (permalink)
pan6467 Lennonite Priest Location: Mansfield, Ohio USA	Jack Dillon walked into the sparsely lit beach shack of a bar and looked around. The people in here were not tourists, they were the ones who society turned their backs on, the drunks and the burnouts, who for whatever their reason dropped out of life and came here to escape the real world. "Hi there 'tender. Do you have a Dr. Pepper and maybe some peanuts?" Jack asked as he sat on a well worn barstool. "I got booze." Said the bartender in a voice that had smoked way too many cigarettes. The Bartender stood about 5 foot 9 and weighed probably 250 pounds, most of which appeared to have been muscle that he allowed to turn to flab. "I'll take a water then." "I told ya, I just have booze. Water, and anything else is just used as mixers," said the bartender as he glared suspiciously at Jack. "Now either you buy booze and mind your business like everyone else in here or I ask you to leave." The bartender looked over Jack's shoulder and nodded. Jack looked to see a man in the corner, leaning his chair against the wall. He had a well worn fedora covering his face patted at his left shoulder, which harnessed a pistol. "Now, sir you either order or my friend there takes you for a walk down the pier." "Sorry, didn't know house rules," said Jack, as he laid out 10 crisp $100 bills. "I'm just here to meet up with an old friend and to have a drink. I'll take a Bacardi and pineapple juice." The bartender smiled and turned away to pour the drink, "now you're talking. Who's your friend, I may know him." "Phil Andrews, he runs a little sloop around these parts called the "Rusted Tiger". Know him?" The bartender stopped pouring and looked at Jack's reflection in the mirror. Jack saw the bartender's hand slowly reaching for a revolver he had not very well hidden between bottles. "Why are you looking for him?" "I'm an old friend of his from 10-15 years ago. Just want to see how he's been." "He ain't got no friends. The man is a hermit and keeps to himself. He hurts noone and noone bothers him." The bartender whirled around with gun in hand. Jack could tell the bartender was nervous and not one to truly know how to use a gun. Jack could handle him, but the man in the fedora stood up with his pistol, in unshaking hands with the look of a man that has killed for fun, Jack knew he better talk fast. "Ok man, look, I'm just from the record company and they sent me down here to talk to him about reforming the band and maybe trying to go out for one last show." The bartender put his gun down and smiled. Jack looed back into the corner the man in the fedora was sitting again, his feet propped up on the table. "Why didn't you say so. I been talking to him, trying to get him back out there since he started coming in. Hell, I loved his music and the band. Thing is he comes in on Sundays, plays his set and disappears for the next week." "So you have no idea how to get a hold of him? We need him in L.A. tomorrow." "Nope, but if I were someone hiding, I'd choose that little sandbar bout 20 miles due East. It protects a cove and only someone truly desperate to hide would find a way past that sandbar and get into the cove." "Thanks." Jack said as he stood up to leave. He pushed the bills towards the bartender. "Keep the change." "Sure thing, good luck man. He's a talented fuck that needs a true audience not these dregs." Jack left, thinking how good that Rum would have tasted and how easy it had been to order it. "10 years of sobriety and I could have blown it in 20 seconds," he said to himself. Jack walked with purpose to the touring company with the island's only helicopter. "Need to go pick someone up." "Sure, mon." said the man behind the counter in a Jamaican voice. "Where will be picking up this person." "A cove 20 miles due East." "That's some hazardous area mon. Wind sheer that will tear apart my chopper, I'm not sure I can do that. Even if we do make it, there isn't much of a place to set down." "I'm willing to pay 10 grand for the ride there and 50 when you bring us back. Would that be enough to cover any wind sheer damages?" "Right on, let's go." The helicopter was old and looking in need of repair. Jack followed the tour guide pilot into the ride and buckled in. After a rocky takeoff the ride was fairly smooth. As the pilot pointed to the cove, the turbulence from the wind started to rock the airship. "You can do this?" Jack asked, a little fear in his voice. The pilot just smiled as he steered towards a well kept and very nice looking yacht. The pilot landed smoothly on the yacht's helipad and Jack got out. There was a man standing alone on the deck, the sun behind him so that it made it difficult to see his face. "Jack, old friend," the man said walking towards him. "I've heard about the others getting together in L.A. Friday and I figured they would send you." The man turned out to be Phil Andrews. Jack walked towards him and gave him a welcome hug. "Phil, good to see you. So you're coming then?" Phil laughed. "I don't think I want to record another album, Jack. J.C. and his sister set me up, they took everything I publicly had and thought they left me with nothing. But such is life." "Then if you knew I was coming why didn't you run? You know that by midnight Friday your contract is officially over, I think you could have hid till then." "Jack, my friend I'm tired of running. I like you Jack I wanted to tell you no face to face." "But we have the Sandels, and we even have Sean." "How is Michael? You know he was a great friend from the beginning all the way through the bitter end. He's a good man." Phil said glaring out at the sea. Before Jack could answer Phil continued, "Let me tell you a story Jack and if you honestly could go back and be with those guys then...... well.... I'll go." "You have a deal, Phil" __________________ I just love people who use the excuse "I use/do this because I LOVE the feeling/joy/happiness it brings me" and expect you to be ok with that as you watch them destroy their life blindly following. My response is, "I like to put forks in an eletrical socket, just LOVE that feeling, can't ever get enough of it, so will you let me put this copper fork in that electric socket?" Last edited by pan6467; 12-14-2005 at 05:22 AM..