The Problem with the Stallion

         



Table of Contents

Before the Beginning of the End          1

The burning Stallion          2

Type chapter title (level 3)          4

Type chapter title (level 1)          4

Type chapter title (level 2)          5

Type chapter title (level 3)          6























































































































































Before the Beginning of the End

The Burning Stallion

"Know what the problem is with this country?", the bar stool next to me exclaimed as my head was turned towards the single dust covered TV the Red Stallion, trusted their consumers not to break. It had been tuned to the Football game, tonight featuring one teamed named after an animal not native to the country and the other a personified number, had been cut off and the TV new flashed with signs of breaking news as two hurried anchor people applied final touches to their hair. I did not know what the problem was with the country, but I had a feeling the man sitting in what had been an empty stool moments ago was going to inform me.

         Turning my body after several seconds; it took me some time to realizes the stool did not swivel so for a moment I sat pulling with all my strength on the bar hoping to exert as little effort as possible into what could only turn out to be a racist conversation, this was central Pennsylvania after all, I began to speak before laying eye's on my new friend, "is it the mex--", a large white arm embroidered with several swastikas crashed into my chest knocking me out the back of the stool winded. Old swastika hands jumped five feet into the air landing quite gracefully on top the bar; followed in suit by the row of six bar stools, now live and animated like a horrific version of Fantasia.

         A bar full of Hill Billy's stared now, no longer worried about the interrupted football game, at the large white supremacist commanding a unit of tactical war chairs. Say whatever you want about the second amendment, the moment one of those arms saves you from being faced stomped by the boots of a Nazi your political opinion sways to whatever candidates wants to get more guns in the people's hands. The sound of gun fire exploded in the small bar so loud a person would have swarm a rip had been made in time and space (Found out later that had happened in the bathroom, which is where my friend Clause had come from). As the sound died down and sulfur filled the air the bullet riddled Nazi fell behind the bar, the stools on the other hand advance on the enemy. Seconds turned into hours as IKEA purchased devil furniture battled joined hill folk; whom made the guys from deliverance look like model, in heated final combat.

As the battled raged two thoughts ran through my mind, first that this whole scene would have made the Viking's proud, and second that a room full of men name Cletus, cotter, and numerous names ending in -Bob, had just shot several hundred rounds in the direction of the bar tender. Looking left a chair smacked into flesh and to my horror I saw that not a man, but one of the stools was using the rest of the furniture as a weapon, and past that the service entrance behind the bar. My wind returned and I gripped the bar using it to stabilize as I stood. Slowly I made my way down the bar, head spinning from the funituriced , my chest still heaving and throbbing from the Nazi close line. Turning the corner I saw the bartender, Miguel, crouched by a bunch of liquors similar in color to jolly ranchers, and looking pissed. The scene behind the bar was a drunks wet dream, the place stank of mixed liquor swimming in a sea of broke glass. Looking up I saw nearly ever bottle had been shattered in the gun battle and now the fermented nectar flooded the back of the bar an inch deep in a poison puddle; Damnit I though again, how did the hicks hit every bottle? AGAIN! I can't afford this. I screamed to him, "Dude, we have to get out of here! Pete should be back any minuet, come on." Miguel, seeing me for the first time, was now throw into rage, but started making his way towards me as he spoke, "You're paying for all of this! Every time, every-goddamn-time you walk through the door, this stuff starts happening! There are chairs attacking my costumers alright, chairs!"

The two of us crouched behind the bar, Miguel was forced to duck walk past me out into the battle field. His head shock as he saw the on the carnage developing in his bar, but he signaled for me to follow towards the back door. I went to follow but something was holding me back but I couldn't place it. I looked down and saw a hand grab my crouch, on the back of the hand, an old faded tattoo of a swastika. Of course I though laughing a little "Bullets don't kill these things" I said not even realizing it was a loud. "No" the Nazi replied, "But they do pisses of off. Those thing hurt you know." My memory get cloudy for a couple minuets there, but I'm pretty sure after that, he throw me across the room smacking into the wall taking a few photos of patrons down with me, by my testicles. In my last second of conscience I saw the light burst in from the front door, as it burst open from the force of an outside variable, the light bathing the bar stopping, consumer, war stool, members of disgraced 1930's era German political parties, and angry bartenders in their tracts. And through the light stepped a large, overweight, red head with a slayer tee shirt carrying dueling torches, and behind him the least athletic looking black man of all time, armed with a leather boxing jump rope.          

"Jesus, Pete I didn't think you were going to make it" Miguel yelled from across the room. Pete smiled, seeing the self behind the bar empty of liquor, and dropped the torch igniting the bar with the Nazi behind it. "What's with the jump rope?" I asked the second of the two in, my only friend since childhood zero. "Pete wants to lose weight, said he going to start jump roping." Zero replied. The Nazi had that look on his face of a man who knew he had been beat, and through that look he caught my eyes and began to speak, the stools defeated around him, and he began to laugh. "Oh Eric" He said turning to me seconds before the flames reached him, "Why do you fight us, do you have any idea how much this will disappoint your father?" I began to respond but now the flames had him and his screams took over the room, fading, smaller and smaller with each passing second like his voice was falling away, but his body still burned in front of us. Through the screams the flaming Nazi managed to utter one final piece of logical though through his lungs and spent his final breath on these last words. "You were right!" he started gather the attention of ever person left In the bar, "The thing that destroying this country" he gasped and bestowed us with his final words, "It's the Mexicans."

It was a long time before Miguel let me come back to his bar.