Love Taps by Don Robishaw

A long life on the road had taught Roger Flynn that words have consequences and often pack an unexpected punch. After being away he decided to move back to his peaceful hometown. 

It’s been two days now. . .

*

After an hour at the Golden Tap, he heads to The Cave. It’s seven steps below street level. He shoulders the green door three times before he turns the knob -- enters, and steps up to the forty-five-foot bar, grimaces, rubs his deltoid, and places a new Mexican Square Toe on a brass rail. 

Mighty Mike sits with elbows on the bar, smiles and listens to him whisper in his ear.   

Roger shifts his boots back and forth on the rail, scratches a scraggly gray beard, as Mike mutters, “mi, mi, mid grade?” The mighty one’s three sheets to the wind. Not a good time to mess with him. 

Roger Flynn receives a glancing jab off his cheek. Not the first time that’s happened. He shoves a stool aside, causing it to tumble around on the black and white checkerboard deck. I could let it go. The big bastard’s too tight against me to use his powerful left. Roger considers options. Better to keep him close, his breath smelling of Irish whiskey, till he’s calm.

    “What are you doing?” He’s almost behind Mike, legs weak, but still standing. Roger yanks the mighty one at the right angle more closely. Next, shifts and parries behind as Mike struggles to punch again. He leans away from the bar into Roger, with two stool limbs off the floor.  

    “What the fuck!” I’ve got him. In a harsh voice Roger says, “Enough. It’s me.”

Both men shift and wrestle and moan and groan. Someone’s going down for the count. At five-foot-ten, Roger misses the edge of the pool table, but not Mike’s forehead. They crash to the dirty deck. Roger twists, lands behind and on top, and has him in a solid full-nelson. Back and forth the two geezers roll. Mike breaks free with help from two young patrons of the watering hole. They continue to tug and heave to get Roger off Mike. 

    I’m the little guy. He hit me first, too. Why don’t they help me? Mike stands tall over him, looks high and low for his dark green MacArthurs, and rubs his eye. He’s not smiling. 

    Roger looks up. He's screwed and needs to think fast. As a trace of blood drips below his right eye he points behind the bar towards the top shelf, Hmm, humor has gotten me out of scraps before. “Finish that last bottle of Jameson and then I’ll kick your ass, bro.”

    The Mighty Mike Flynn tastes blood . . . rubs his forehead . . . gives the stained red hand the once-over . . . and slaps his belly and laughs. “Mid grade! You know Mom likes the Acapulco Gold, asshole.”

Don Robishaw’s collection of five FF tales found in, ‘Bad Road Ahead’ was the Grand Winner in Defenestrationism, 2020 Flash Fiction Suite Contest.

Don’s short story entitled,’Bad Paper Odyssey’ was a semi-finalist in Digging Through the Fat 2018 Chapbook Contest.

His work has also recently appeared in The Rye Whiskey Review, Drunk Monkeys, Literary Orphans, Crack-the-Spine, FFM, O’ Dark Thirty, among other venues.

Many of the characters he developed have been homeless, served for periods of time in the military, or are based upon archetypes or stereotypes he's met while on the road. He likes to write poetry, satire, tragedies, and gritty fictional tales — of men and women from various backgrounds — that may have sprouted from a seed, from his past.

Before he stopped working to write he ran educational programs for homeless shelters. Don's also well-traveled, using various ways and means: Sailor, Peace Corps Volunteer, bartender, hitchhiker, world traveler, college professor, and circus roustabout.