67 (A fictional tale)

(This is based partially on a dream I had the other night and a weird experience I had at a Pinetown pub a few years ago… Just thought I’d write it creatively. Let me know what you think.)

The room was crowded, yet the air was cold. It’s all this tension, he thought, as he sat at the bar nursing what was, at least, his sixth Spiced Gold and Coke. In the corner sat three old men, looking tearful as they spoke of the “good old days, when these blacks weren’t allowed to enter here”, their glances shifting between the table of weathy black businesswomen and the very out of place old South African flag that hung from the wall.

The barman, too, looked out of place. His 1970s handlebar moustache, bald head and red cut-off vest would be a much better fit in the stands of a motocross race in some Red Neck part of middle America. But the barman, whose name was George, if the calls from the three old men were correct, was clearly local. He, too, showed a fondness for the old flag. If that wasn’t enough, his thick Afrikaans accent gave his nationality away.

Raising his eleventh – twelfth, thirteenth, he didn’t know – Spiced Gold to his lips, Adrian Smit carefully absorbed what was going on around him. He listened carefully to the conversations, took note of every smell and studied each nook and cranny of The Rusty Key. It was his job to know these details. And it would prove so important.

“George, where can I find the bogs,” Adrian asked.

“Piss off.”

“That’s the intention. And if you don’t tell me where I can find the toilet, I might just piss off all over your bar.”

George turned away, clearly disinterested. He had more important things on his mind, most urgently turning up the volume of De La Rey on what looked like the oldest CD player known to man. At this the three businesswomen left, and with them went the pub’s only real chance of making money today. George saluted the old flag as the trio left, and rest of the pub broke out into applause.

Except Adrian. His hands were too busy to clap, what with the one holding himself upright and the other aiming his cock at the pool table as he pissed.

“You have got to be joking,” George said, almost in disbelief.

Raising his hand, Adrian mock saluted the flag and the obviously racist patrons. He then walked out. He smiled. He knew what was coming next.

Adrian thrust his hands deep into his pockets. It was colder than he thought it would be, and he was thankful for the agency-issued trenchcoat he’d been given. He looked over his shoulder, just to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. He wasn’t. “Bastards,” he mumbled out loud, realising that George was more interested in cleaning his puddle of urine than exacting any form of revenge.

His hands sliding as far into his pockets as possible, Adrian found what he was looking for. It wasn’t very big, only about five centimetres long, but it was important. It was, after all, the whole reason he went to The Rusty Key. He allowed himself a little smirk as he pushed the tiny red button and waited for the explosion.

The Rusty Key lay in tatters, its roof on fire and all of its occupants dead. Adrian sped up slightly, ducking into an alley and jumping on his sleek black Yamaha. He spoke clearly and crisply into his microphone. “Seven racists down, 60 to go. Happy birthday, Tata. Happy birthday.”

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