The Barman and the Barfly

                                        The Barman and the Barfly

  His name was John Murphy, A solid, reliable name for a solid reliable man. He stood lean and proud behind the polished mahogany bar of The Farriers' Arm, (the final 's' having long ago been wrenched away by drunks in the night.) Six foot flat in shiny black brogues and dressed in crisp shirt and slacks of a similar sombre shade.

  He was a prince of the pumps and overseer of the optics, Lord of all he surveyed. Which was, at this early hour of a Wednesday, an empty room. He surveys it again to be sure. Beermats out, spirits stocked, fridges packed... nothing to do but polish clean glasses. 
  John goes to the task with distracted determination. The movements slow and meticulous, his delicate fingers brushing the towel over every inch of the glass as he stares into the middle distance.

  There his clear blue eyes could see the future, mere hours from now when the bar would be alive with the sounds of laughter and conversation. Pa Keogh would mount the makeshift stage and beat out lively folksongs from his battered old squeeze-box. The place would be hectic and full of loud drunks clamoring for his attention.
 
  John groans inwardly, rolls his eyes to heaven and focuses on the past, mere hours from now when he was enjoying the fruits of Bacchus instead of serving them. It was a great night that grew; first to an early morning, then to a late morning before blossoming forth into a workday without sleep featuring anywhere in between. 
  John wishes fervently that he could somehow escape the late shift; pull a sickie maybe, claim some bogus family crisis? Wouldn't work, he was drinking on the other side of this very counter last night and would get no sympathy from Mags, the manageress. Family crises? She knew his entire family. Probably better than he did. There was nothing for it but work through it.

  Returning to the present, he raises the vessel to the single shaft of sunlight that penetrates the grimy sky light, tilts back his head and peers through his glasses at his handiwork.
  A barfly lands on the rim of the pint glass, unconcerned with Johns disgusted glare. It basks in the sheen of sunlight on the glass, flexing its' wings and stretching its' legs. John grips firmly and slaps at the fly with his free hand, resulting in a tiny smear of insect on the glass.
"Gotcha, ya little bastard."
 
  He's smiling as he rewashes the anvil of insect doom, giving it his undivided attention. Grunting in satisfaction at a job well done he again lifts the glass to the sunlight. 
  Another midge wivvers across his vision to bounce erratically against the overhead down-lighters. It draws his attention just as the bulb attracts the fly.
  There's a soft clink as he returns the glass to its brethren beneath the taps. Moving as methodically as ever, He winds the towel once around his right hand and grips tightly. Johns' eyes never blink or stray from the barfly as it batters the bulb with its frail body.
  Widening his stance; gunfighter style, his left hand raised palm down, washcloth a-dangle from his right, John awaits his moment. The rusty clocks tolls out the heavy seconds as he stares down the insect invader. The invader lands, John strikes.

  His wrist flicks back, flashes forwards and the towel whip-cracks towards the fly. The power in the rag is incredible as it snakes forward and at its zenith the tip is as rigid as a rod of iron.
  And about as conductive too. The bulb shatters beneath the blow and raw electricity courses through the damp towel to earth via Johns' shaking body. A moment passes. One of calm and stillness before, with infinite poise and grace John moves to the horizontal with a thump that shakes the neat row of polished glasses.
  Calm and stillness return with an added air of permanence. The bar is silent and the persecuted barfly spirals down to inspect the electrocuted barman.
"gotcha, ya big bastard."
                 
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