several sentence sunday
had the idea of lanterns ending with guy trapped on salvation a la peacemaker and now i'm back on my terrificgreen bs. behold:
“Good afternoon, sir,” says Clark. The bartender doesn’t even look up from the glass he’s polishing. “Grab a seat, and I’ll be right with you.” “Oh, uh, thank you, but we’re not interested in drinks right now.” Clark glances at Michael, as if double-checking. “We were hoping you could help us find somebody.” Two patrons sitting on stools nearby tear their gazes away from the football game on TV. The bartender sets the glass on the counter and gives them a cursory onceover. Going by the look on his face he’s not thrilled by what he’s seeing. Likely he’d be even less thrilled if they weren’t in their civilian clothes. “His name is Guy Gardner,” Michael says. That’s easy enough. But how can he describe Guy? What else can he mention that’d be relevant? There are hundreds of details that spring immediately to mind, fighting to be spoken first: the ridiculous haircut, the broad and slightly crooked nose, the gold tooth that glints in the sunlight when he grins, the irreverent sense of humor and complete lack of filter, the presence and confidence and easy swagger that instantly commands the attention of whatever room he enters. He’s impossible to miss. Anyone who’s ever met him would remember. “He’s about my height,” Clark says. “Early fifties, well built.” He gestures around his head. “He’s got a bowl cut. Real distinctive.” “We know he was in this part of town a month or so back,” Michael cuts in. “Have you seen him since then? Do you know where he is?” “He’s talking about the Lantern, Steve,” one of the patrons grunts. “Which one? The young’un? The cowboy?” “The jackass pool hustler.” “Oh, him,” Steve the bartender says. His lip curls. “Well, I don’t mind telling y’all what I told him and his friends. We don’t serve their kind here.” Michael’s blood boils. Quick as a flash, he grabs Steve by the collar and yanks him down so hard his face smashes into the counter, relishing the sound of cartilage cracking like a carrot stick. “I don’t give a fuck about your goddamned service policy,” he snarls into Steve’s ear. “I asked you if you know where he is!”
