Looking Through Whiskey Colored Glasses

Art by Chris Brock - 2023

Eyes watched as the well dressed man entered the establishment and took a seat at the wood-paneled bar. He rested his hand on its top. He tapped it as he waited for the bartender to attend to his needs. Its sticky surface was certainly not helping his patience.

He looked out of place in such a rustic environment. His pressed suit and cufflinks shined in the dim light. His quiet demeanor didn’t match the upbeat music and loud energy of the other patrons. The music played from a speaker system. Every kick drum sent a rattle throughout the bar; the subwoofer must be broken.

The bartender stepped over, “What can I interest you in, sir?”

“Jack on the rocks.” The man slid over a bill.

The bartender nodded and procured a glass, ice, and a bottle. The ice shivered under the pouring whiskey. He handed over the drink, and the man took a sip. Serenity.

“Aster? Roger Aster?”

Another man had entered the bar, taking a moment to approach the well dressed man enjoying his drink. His beard was a bit unkempt, his hair wild and wind tossed, but his clothing indicated that this was a respectable man--the type of man Roger Aster would allow himself to talk to.

“Who’s asking?” Aster asked.

“I’m Morris.” The newcomer took a seat beside Aster. “Kyle Morris.”

He offered a handshake. Aster took his hand. His grip tightened around Morris’s fingers.

“I don’t suppose you recognize my name?” Morris asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, you’re a busy man. Names must come across your desk everyday.”

Aster gave a cold smile and grunt in reply.

“You know, I’m interested in the technology you’ve managed to develop in the last year,” Morris said. “I’ve been keeping up with your work, and I have to say, it’s impressive.”

“Mr. Morris, I’m out of the office. This isn’t exactly the place to talk business.”

Aster swirled his whiskey. The ice rattled around for a moment before settling at the bottom of the glass.

“Oh, I’m far from a businessman, Mr. Aster,” Morris laughed. “I’m only an observer. I’m just interested to know how you keep up with it all. I’m an aspiring entrepreneur myself.”

“Really?” Aster smirked. “Well, take risks. That’s my advice. Take risks, and keep your assets in line when those risks have finally taken off.”

“And what if it doesn’t work?” Morrisasked. “What if the risks don’t pay off the way you’d thought they would?”

Aster shrugged, “Accidents happen.”

“Accidents? Like what happened in that factory up north?”

“Are you working for a paper or something?” Aster set down his glass. “Some sort of network?”

“No… no… sorry.”

“If you really want to make it somewhere, kid, you learn to keep your mouth shut. Buy a drink--you know what?” Aster slapped a bill on the table, “Bartender! Get this man a drink!”

“I’m good, thank you,” Morris pushed the money back over to Aster. He looked up at the bartender, “Thank you, Jerry, but I’m good.”

Aster laughed, “If you're not here to drink, Mr. Morris, then why come to a bar?”

“I wanted to meet with you.”

“So you are from the press--.”

“No, I’m just here to get away, you know?” Morris said. “That’s why you’re here, right? Getting away from the old family? Enjoy a drink by yourself?”

Aster grunted. The two men sat in silence for a bit. The sticky bartop clung to Aster’s nerves. It bothered him. This whole conversation bothered him.

Then, Morris cut through the silence.

“Have you ever killed a man?”

Aster paused in the middle of a sip of whiskey. He looked at the man sitting beside him.

Morris’s eyes were narrowed, his gaze locked onto Aster. His back was tense. His hand tapped against the sticky bartop. He was waiting for something. He was impatient.

Aster cleared his throat. He maintained his composure. These media-types looked for anything these days. Refusing the question would be as damning as confirming suspicions.

“I don’t see why any accusations are necessary here.”

“There was no accusation, Mr. Aster,” Morris said. “Just a question. Just two brothers sitting down, making smalltalk.”

Aster set down his glass. The ice was almost gone, its frozen remnants floating just below the surface of the golden whiskey. They would never surface.

“Listen, kid,” Aster started, “I don’t know who the hell you’re working for--or what kind of people sent you into this bar--but you’d better watch your back if you’re going to be sauntering in and asking those sorts of questions, alright? I know people, people far more dangerous than any sort of shit you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in, I guarantee you. Now, order a drink, and keep your mouth shut, or leave this bar and don’t turn back. Understand?”

Morris swallowed, but he remained unphased. His jaw tensed, and his eyes pierced into Aster’s, as if analyzing every detail and every dirty secret he had to offer. Aster hated that look.

“You can tell in the eyes, Mr. Aster. The eyes are the window to the soul--a killing taints the soul. When a man looks you in the eye as he pulls the trigger, you know they mean it. They’re not afraid. They’ll look death in the eye and smile back.

“Now, when a man looks away, you know he’s frightened. He’s a coward. Do you want to know what I think of that, Mr. Aster?”

“I told you,” Aster growled, “leave me the fuck alone!”

“I think,” Morris continued, “that you chose to look away when the factory went under--when the flames started to curl up its walls, when the building erupted in less than a second and killed every man and woman inside.”

“And what is it to you then?” Aster yelled, aware of the people beginning to stare, their eyes watching his every move. “What makes you think you’re so goddamn noble?”

“Because the death of my brother in that factory was not an accident, Mr. Aster, and neither is yours.”

Aster watched Morris reach into his coat, draw his weapon, and press its muzzle against his head. The air in the room was sucked out of the bar, a collective gasp shooting through the dimly lit space. The cold metal of the gun dug into his skin, the force almost as deadly as Morris’s gaze. It was fixated directly on Aster, drilling into his eyes with the unwavering intensity of a blazing fire.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t hesitate. He fired.