The Passage

He just stood there staring at me, his nose not 3 inches from mine. His head tilted slightly to the left and his right eyelid flickering like crazy, I do not think I can talk my way out of this one.
"I said are you fuckin' eyeballing me?"
How do I answer that? Yes, you looked like such a nice guy sat in the corner of this dank bar, with your homemade Nazi tattoos that I felt staring at the biggest, meanest, evilest looking thug would be an appropriate thing to do. I think not. I only came in this place to use a phone. Now it looks like I am going to need it to call my own ambulance. Or an undertaker, the situation is looking grim.
"I don't want any trouble mate, I only came………………"
"I do not want your fuckin' life story mate, I want to know if you were fuckin' eyeballin' me?"

Why would he want to pick on me? The only reason I stand out is because I am wearing a suit. Oh, and that fact that I am over six foot tall and would make an Ethiopian look obese. I cannot help it, it's my metabolism. So many events lead to this current situation, events that at the time seemed so insignificance and meaningless. If I had not applied for that job, if my car didn't break down or if I decided not to eat that mars back in 1987 then maybe I would be somewhere else. Somewhere better. A Hawaiian island perhaps, or cleaning the chairs in a porno theatre. Anywhere has to be better than here. Hang on, his eye is flickering faster, I think he requires a response.

"No mate, I wouldn't dream of it, I only came………………"
"So what? You were staring at me missus then?"
Now I know I am doomed. His partner left as soon as I came in. He has been sat talking to himself for the past 10 minutes. Who can help but "eyeball" him? What a freak, sat there is his ASDA shorts and imitation England football shirt. It is people like him that remind me why I never leave me house unless I absolutely have to.

"Not at all mate, look I don't want any trouble, I only came…………."
"I aint your fucking mate, mate"
Oh, the irony.
"If your gonna get clever with me, I'm gonna fucking stick ya"
With this, he grabs a pool cue leaning against one of the nicotine stained tables next to him. He stares at the end of it for a second, and then looks back at me.
"You want a piece of this then mate, is that it?"

I noticed the other guy who was here earlier has vanished, along with the barman. So much for fucking human empathy then. They would much rather just leave me to get brutalised than put themselves at risk. I suppose it's an evolutionary by-product really. Survival instinct at its best I guess, I shouldn't blame them. Why am I even thinking about this right now? I have more important things to think about, like getting out of this situation.
"Please mate, I have not wronged you"
I can feel myself starting to cry. But what else can I do? It is just him and me, oh, and his pool cue. I pause for a second, thinking of something to say to him, something that will make him see me as a person with feelings, rather than the punch bag I am about to become. I feel my leg begin to shake and a feeling of sheer terror grip my body like a virus. No cure or treatment, only absolute escape can save me now.

"Please mate" I am now in full floods of tears as I begin the pleading procedures. I grasp my hands together like I am in mid-pray like all the Sundays I was dragged to church by my parents. I hated it then, but at this point looking back, it was heaven. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Only a deafening silence is born into the world. All of a sudden everything goes into slow motion. I see him swing back the cue. Thoughts are rushing through my head. Should I move? Should I just let him go for it and hope he goes easy on me? The cue strikes my face with the force of nothing I have ever felt. My vision instantly gets blurry and I fall to the ground. I see him towering over me, cue above his head. I hope he feels pity for me, and just lets me go. I begin to see the shiny wood get closer to me. I watch it, waiting for the pain to wrap its tentacles around every inch of my body. But it does not. I find myself looking down on my body, watching like an innocent bystander as this stranger I met less than five minutes earlier pummels my rag doll corpse with an implement that once stood for sportsmanship and fairness.

After ten or so more hits he pauses, looks around casual strolls to the door. As I watch him leave, I turn my head and look at my corpse on the floor. Lifeless, but hauntingly beautiful. I see faces start peeking through the door. I feel this is my cue to leave. But where am I going to go? What do I do now that I have perished? As I head for the daylight I can hear people talking outside. One old lady mentions that his wife had just left him as she thought he was mentally unstable. I died in some alien hole somewhere, just to prove some women right? If I had the option of going this way, or not existing in the first place then there would not have been much of a competition.