A druggie, a criminal, and a preacher walk into a bar.

I know you’re expecting a joke here, but there is none.

Well, at least not yet.

With a smirk on my face, I sit down on a stool and nod at Chuck, the bartender, who shakes his head at me when he notices me. “Save it; I don’t wanna hear it,” I growl. “Gimme a whiskey on the rocks.”

“Hi to you too,” he growls back, chewing on a toothpick as he turns around to grab the liquor. “You know, I could save you time and just give you the bottle.”

“No, I’m good. I prefer booze when it’s slow and painful,” I retort.

He snorts and shakes his head again. “Sometimes, I really wanna tell you to get the fuck outta here.” He grabs a glass and tosses in some ice cubes then pours my drink.

“But then you’d be missing all that sweet cash,” I reply.

He slides it my way. “You found my weak spot.”

“That’s my job,” I muse, taking a sip. The kick immediately hits me in the guts, but it only makes me want to take another. I’m a sucker for pain.

“Maybe you should go easy on yourself tonight,” Chuck says.

“You don’t have to look out for me.” I put down my drink and look at the cold moisture gathering on the outside of the glass. “I’m a lost cause anyway.”

“That ain’t true, and you know it.”

I shrug, taking another sip. I fucking hate talking about this shit.

“Everybody needs someone to look out for them once in a while.”

“Yeah, well, I got it covered,” I say, blowing out a sigh. “You want my money or not?”

He nods. “You know I damn well do.”

“Then stop talking and pour me another.” I shove my glass forward and stare at him until he grabs the bottle again and starts pouring. “Keep going.”

“You got anyone to drive you home tonight?” he asks.

“No. But I know you’ll get me a cab.”

He smiles when he realizes I know him all too well.

Right before the whiskey hits the edge of the glass, I hold up my hand, and he stops. I take a big gulp of the whiskey and let out a breath. “Fuck, yes. Exactly what I needed.”

“What you need every damn day of the week, you mean.”

We both laugh.

However, the smile disappears from his face the moment two shadows block the light.

“Hey, you there.”

I don’t reply. My name isn’t fucking ‘You there.’

“You deaf or something?” one of the guys behind me says, but I just keep drinking.

Meanwhile, Chuck turns and starts washing the dishes like he doesn’t know who they are even though he damn well does. They come here every other Friday, trying to start a fight with a random guy so they can shake him for cash.

This time, they picked the wrong one, though.

“Hey, motherfucker. Turn around.” One of them taps my shoulder.

Frowning, I put down my drink and glance over my shoulder, still not answering their catcalls. “Got something to say?”

Two ugly fucks stand in front of me. One with a bald head covered in swastikas and the other covered in pimples that are bursting as he talks.

“Yeah, who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?”

“None of your fuckin’ business,” I reply, taking another sip of my whiskey.

The little pimpled one mutters, “Jesus, isn’t he some kind of pri—”

“Who cares,” the bald one growls. “He can’t be here. This place is ours …” the bald one growls.

“Is your name on the sign?” I ask, raising a brow.

“The what?” the pimpled one says.

“The sign. Outside.” I point at the door. “You’re welcome to go look if you need some help.”

“Fuck you,” the bald one curses, showing me his gold teeth.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty lady,” I muse.

He presses his thick thumb against my chest. “Shut your fuckin’ pie hole, you Bible thumper. Now give me your fucking money or else …”

“Or what? You’re gonna hit me?” I say, unimpressed.

“Yeah … and worse,” the pimpled one threatens.

I gaze at Chuck who seems to be hiding his laughter in his sleeve while he tries to dry the dishes. “Hey Chuck, did you hear that? They’re gonna hit me. Me.”

Chuck makes a face and rolls his eyes, and I burst out laughing. “Good one.”

The bald one gets so mad, he grabs my collar and almost pulls me off my stool.

This is a point of no return for me.

Normally, I would let them off with a warning, but he crossed a line right there.

No one, and I mean no one, touches my collar.

That thing is sacred.

“Chuck …” I mutter.

“Frank”—he sighs—“can ya not—”

“Go,” I interrupt.

“Money or pain. Choose,” the bald one growls while Chuck slowly backs away into the supply room.

Grinding my teeth, I say, “Neither.”

He lifts his fist ready to attack. Right as it comes close to my face, I lean sideways and narrowly avoid it. I quickly grab his wrist and hold him in place as I jam my knee in his face. Then I kick him away fast enough to protect myself against the knife the pimpled one just pulled.

He tries to slash me with it, but I block it and grasp his wrist, twisting it hard enough to break. He screams, and I punch him in the jaw, making him fall backward.

The bald one gets up and grunts as he tries to bulldoze me. I jump away from the bar just in time, and he rams his head straight into the wooden bar, knocking himself out. I laugh as the other one gets angrier by the second, his face so red I’m almost worried it might explode. That’d be a sight to behold.

“You motherfucker! You’ll pay for that!” the pimpled one screams, grabbing his knife again.

He thrusts it at me, slashing along my cheek. The blade leaves a small slit, and blood seeps down my face, but I don’t even notice the pain.

All I can focus on is grabbing him by the back of the head and shoving his face down onto an empty glass on the bar. He squeals as the shards enter his skin while I slide his face along the bar like I’m serving up some arrogant little shit with a side order of bald scum.

“Think you can pull that trick on me? Not today, bitch,” I whisper into his ear, ramming his face against the wood again.

He fights back by throwing punches into the air, so I quickly grab his hands and force them behind his back.

“Didn’t expect that, did you?”

The asshole under my grip whimpers from the pain, and as I tighten my grip, he begins to cry. “I’m sorry,” he squeaks.

“Sorry, my ass,” I hiss, holding him down firmly. “Who else did you steal from this week?”

“No one,” he says.

I twist his pinky until he squeals like a girl. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to lie to a preacher?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! We only stole two dollars from Chuck.”

“Chuck!” I yell. “C’mere.”

As Chuck scurries back from the supply room, I hiss into the boy’s ear, “Where’s the money?”

He sniffs. “In my back pocket.”

I glower, not wanting to get my hands anywhere near his ass, but I need to make a point here. Guess every once in a while, I have to sacrifice myself for the greater good.

I reach into his pocket with disgust and take out two one-dollar bills, placing them on the counter. “There you go, Chuck. They’re yours.”

“Thanks,” he says. “But that won’t cover the broken chairs.”

He points at the mess behind me, and I make a face at him. “C’mon, Chuck, work with me here.”

He shrugs and holds up his hands. “Whatever.” Then he goes back into the supply room. “Tell me when you’re done.”

“Tell him you’re sorry,” I growl at the crying little shit.

“I’m sorry!” he shrieks as I twist his other pinky.

For a second there, I wonder if I should take it one step further, but that would make me just as bad as they are. I need to set an example. That’s what preachers do. Or so I’ve been told.

I’m not a priest, and I don’t pretend to be one. I’m just your average joe preaching to the people. However, I won’t stand for bad behavior.

“Good,” I growl, lifting him off the bar and throwing him near his buddy. “Now get the fuck outta here and don’t come back. And take that sorry-ass racist with you,” I spit, grabbing my drink.

“We won’t,” he mutters, grabbing the bald one by the shoulders. Being a shrimp himself, I know dragging a bull of a man outside is a tough job. Especially when no one gives you a hand.

I don’t even give a shit. I just watch, mildly amused by the silliness, while I sip on my whiskey.

“You done now?” Chuck calls out.

“Yeah,” I reply, still staring at the door until the two have disappeared.

“Fucking hell, Frank. Why? Why do you always have to mess up this place?”

“I’m sorry, Chuck. I know I’m shit ‘cause I attract a lot of flies.”

He snorts while shaking his head then grabs a broom and walks to the front of the bar, holding it out to me. “Here. Help me clean.”

I nod a few times and take another sip of my whiskey.

“You’ve got something,” Chuck says, “here,” and he points at my cheek.

Without looking away, I grab a napkin and wipe the blood off my cheek, throwing it down on the floor with the rest of the trash.

“Really?” Chuck raises his brow at me.

I shrug. “What? It’s getting cleaned up anyway.”

He pushes the broom into my hands and says, “You’re one weird-ass motherfucking preacher, you know that?”

I laugh and take my last sip then put down the glass.

“You never change,” he adds.

I grin as we get to work on the broken tables, chairs, and glass. “Nope. Never have. Never will.”