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When Demos and his four-eyed skivvy had left the shooting range, Brian O'Brien tightened his fist until the veins on the back of his hand threatened to explode. The Irishman grabbed his opponent's neatly punctured target and shredded it from head to toe. That girly little wop would pay. Brian's weathered face burned redder than a branding iron. He slammed his fist through a thin wooden wall that separated his station from the next. A dark grin flickered over his features. Splintering the wood had felt like cracking a skull. Several regulars lowered their guns and looked curiously in his direction.
Dennis Samson occupied the station adjacent to Brian's. The burly, middle-aged redhead immediately threw down his earmuffs. He eyed the hole in the partition and raised a thick eyebrow. "What the hell's eating you, Bob?"
A young Swede on the other side removed his protective eyewear. He noticed the Irishman's empty hands and smirked. "That Demos kid beat ya? Where the hell is your beretta?"
A chilling glare quickly silenced the sportsmen. Dark green eyes glowed demonically. Brian tilted his head to the ceiling and smirked like a feral wolf envisioning its prey. The spectators held a collective breath. After a long, tense pause, the sound of low, unsteady laughter radiated from the eastern wall. It grew louder and louder until the Irishman was laughing maniacally, throwing his head back and baring his yellowing teeth. "Don't think that you can hide behind your family forever. This is only the beginning, you fucking prick!"
A bald man with multiple tattoos on his arms approached the hysterical customer. His face was lined with distinguished wrinkles and white stubble around his jaw. An unshakable calmness conveyed experience from the Vietnam War. He sighed wearily. "I'm sorry, but I must ask you to leave. You're distracting the other patrons, Bob."
Brian spun around and narrowed his eyes at the manager. He spat on the cement. "Ben, who the fuck are you calling 'Bob'? It's Brian O'Brien, dipshit."
The other customers began to speak among themselves in hushed tones. Brian surveyed the sportsmen and cursed under his breath. He kicked a trash can before exiting the shooting range.
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Brian Yorick O'Brien had disliked his name from the moment he entered Arklow Primary School. The institution was located on a grassy knoll on the outskirts of Leitrim, Ireland. Most of the citizens were born in Arklow and died in Arklow. Brian was very proud of his Irish heritage. He spoke loudly, ate heartily, and fought boisterously. The young man would have easily passed for a purebred Irishman if it weren't for his middle initial. The letter "Y" did not exist in the Irish language. Brian was the only child in 1st class with an Old English middle name. He was relentlessly teased by his peers. Arklow was a homogeneous society; anyone remotely different was scrutinized and despised. Brian hated his mother for naming him after her great grandfather. It was indisputable proof that foul English blood ran through his veins.
Mr. O'Brien died the month that his son entered secondary school. A bus collided with a train; fourteen passengers were killed. Mrs. O'Brien quickly spiraled into a relentless depression. She began to abuse pain killers and alcohol to escape from reality. However, these drugs weren't enough. One Saturday night, Mrs. O'Brien discretely acquired a small quantity of crack cocaine. She became addicted after just one use. The woman began to disregard her responsibilities as a mother; her only child quickly learned to take care of himself. When social services sent financial aid, Brian stole the envelope from the mailbox before his mother could find it. He hid most of the money before carefully replacing the envelope. The preteen saved a small portion for food, utilities, and rent. There wasn't enough cash for toys or new clothes. Brian often arrived to school wearing worn shirts with patches on the elbows and brown stains under the arms. The ends of his fifty-pence scarves were always tattered.
The awkward teenager was a slow learner; one of his teachers suggested that he enroll in "special education" courses for students with learning disabilities. Brian could not add or subtract fractions in the ninth grade. Decimals were equally challenging. He became the brunt of many jokes. After school, classmates snickered as the "retard" spun the dial of his locker. The teenagers were merciless. "It's amazing that Brian can remember the correct code. He probably forgets it half the time," commented a chubby classmate. The heavy boy tucked a number two pencil into his pocket protector. He opened a bag of cheese puffs and popped one into his mouth. "Yeah, remembering a locker combination a big achievement for someone like Brian," said a tall blonde with boxy glasses. "Did you guys see the hole in his jeans? I think that he's wearing green underwear." The students did not bother to stifle their laughter.
It was no surprise when Brian dropped out of school during his tenth year. He began to frequent pubs regularly by the age of sixteen. His burly shoulders, tall frame, and intimidating voice helped him to pass for an adult. The teenager drank enough for at least two grown men. His consumption of Guinness was infamous within Arklow. Seasoned barkeeps would whistle as he downed his thirteenth or fourteenth pint. For the first time in his life, Brian enjoyed being in the limelight. He started challenging new customers to drinking games. The grown men usually underestimated his alcohol tolerance, and Brian won enough money to continue his new lifestyle. Winning was euphoric. Each victory stroked the teenager's badly wounded ego. Eventually, the young man began to challenge every person who entered a bar. He continued to defeat his opponents and was rewarded with an incredible psychological high each time.
Several years passed, and Brian become an abnormally competitive man with an over-sized ego. He sent a job application to a brewery company and expected to be hired as an assistant manager. Brian had no prior work experience. However, the Irishman believed that he drank a lot of beer and was therefore qualified for the job. His dream was instantly crushed. Instead, Smithwicks hired Brian as a factory janitor. He was paid minimum wage and subsisted on wilted cabbage and expired, canned beef. The blue-collared worker lived in a one-room flat with a broken stove and faulty heater. His living conditions were bleak, but that did not diminish his pride in the taverns. The Irishman considered himself to be the master of every drinking game known to mankind. McNickels, Blarney Ball, and Fisty Kisses were among his favorites.
Brian hosted raucous parties on the rooftop of his apartment complex. He couldn't afford to supply alcohol to all of his guests, so he adopted a "bring your own bottle" policy. Brian Yorick O'Brien simply became known as "BYOB."
Brian had hated his name for his entire life, until he was christened "BYOB." That nickname changed everything. It symbolized affection, respect, and gratitude. The future was beginning to look bright, until the factory closed without notice.
Thousands of workers were left unemployed. Brian didn't believe in the existence of God, but sometimes it felt like God enjoyed fucking with his life. Ireland was facing an economic recession, and there weren't enough jobs for manual laborers. Brian reluctantly said farewell to his friends before boarding a plane to the United States.
The Irishman's feeble hope for a better life was extinguished like a match. He was met with prejudice because of his heavy accent and lack of education. The cost of living was extremely high in New York. He was desperate to find work. The only employer that accepted Brian was a meat-packing factory. The penniless Irishman was forced to accept the offer. He worked fifty hours a week slicing pigs from snout to tail with a butcher knife. The stench of intestines and severed bladders was nauseating but Brian became accustomed to the gore. He found a tiny flat in a dilapidated building and ate stale bread with beans every night. Life wasn't any easier in America. He felt isolated and alone in this dense city with its looming sky scrapers and foreign tongues.
On Saint Patrick's Day, Brian overheard an Irish bartender conversing with stocky German immigrant. They chatted about a shooting range that was located in the basement of a vacant office building on the corner of Fourth Street and Avenue E. This piqued Brian's curiosity. He was already skilled with a butcher knife, but it might be entertaining to study another weapon. The meat packing district wasn't exactly a safe area; marksmanship might come in handy. Brian would not hesitate to apply his training during an actual fight.
Ben knew that Brian was different from other customers after the Irishman visited the shooting range for the fifth day in a row. The manager studied his new patron carefully. It was as if Brian had developed an abnormal obsession with the targets. He would run through several hundred rounds in one evening. His emerald eyes glowed with a lethal aura as he re-loaded the gun. Brian competed against himself for months. The practice eventually paid off. After two years, Brian had become sharpest shooter in Bob's range. He cherished the title. Shooting was far more rewarding than drinking. However, Brian's success was short-lived. Everything changed when a skinny Italian teenager appeared one January day. Demos Giorgetti. The kid was smart, talented, and charismatic. He was a mobster, but that did not stop him from befriending most of the regulars. The older men respected and even envied Demos.
It was around this time when he heard it for the first time. Brian couldn't remember the exact date, but he remembered that his back was turned. "Bob." They spoke in muted, mocking tones. Laughing eyes flickered in the direction of his station and swiftly darted away. The Irishman suspected that the joke had something to do with the arrival of that kid. In a matter of weeks, nearly every customer referred to him as "Bob."
He abhorred it. How dare they butcher his name like that? He was Brian O'Brien, the sharpshooting genius! "BYOB," the renowned Irish drinker! At times, he felt tempted to scream and aim his beretta at them. However, the joke had already spread like wildfire. Brian Yorick O'Brien was now simply known as "Bob," and there was nothing that he could do about it.