The Wrong Side of Dead

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At the end of the bar, Seth Harper slouched, nursing his lukewarm beer and keeping his dark eyes on the door, waiting. Not even a good beer buzz made him forget why he’d come—or why he still sat alone.

Given the grand scheme of the universe, he distracted himself by contemplating the big picture. Dirty Monty’s and places like it existed for a reason. And several libations had given him the clarity of mind to reflect on it. Sleazy dumps gave the socially unacceptable a place to hang out, even on a Thursday night. And if these folks packed a thirst, Monty’s served the cheap stuff and charged enough to trick its marginal clientele into believing it was worth it. When alcohol was involved, things always got real simple. And he appreciated the irony of his half-tanked epiphany, especially since he’d be counted among the socially unacceptable here tonight.

Yet he was a few beers shy of being easily duped by any redeeming nature of the shoddy bar. The pungent odor of cigarette smoke, liquor, and cheap perfume had marked him. And the carpet smelled of mold, a borderline improvement over the collective tang of the bar patrons. His dark tousled hair, well-worn jeans, and favorite black Jerry Springer tee already reeked of the bar’s seedier elements. And well into the night, he’d be hearing a steady thrum of bass in his ears, courtesy of the nonstop jukebox music—a mix of country, classic heavy metal, and top 40 pop. He sighed and stared into his beer mug, bracing himself to accept what had happened and hail a cab home.

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