Work Text:
The door to the bar slammed open, rattling the atmosphere of weary souls sharing an afterwork wind-down. Heads turned as a short, young man with a head of messy brown hair stormed in, letting the door swing shut behind him.
“Oh boy,” the bartender sighed as the man stomped up to the bar and plopped down on an empty stool. The rest of the patrons lost interest as soon as he’d settled in. “Hey Mark. Who spit in your soup?”
“Bourbon and soda.” As soon as they set down the drink, Mark snatched it up and took two big gulps. “That smart-ass Jake Wallerby was comparing me to the damned Klondike Kid again!”
“Ah, the famed streetfighter of local legend. Shouldn’t that be a compliment? Man’s an icon.”
“He ain’t even real!”
Rolling their eyes, the bartender turned to the customer next to Mark.
“Another of the same?”
“Why not?”
As the bartender went to the tap, the other patron turned to look Mark up and down. The stranger had soft, twinkling blue eyes that smiled as much as his lips. His tanned, leathery skin and solid build suggested years of outdoor labor, and his short, blonde hair was fittingly sensible.
“Sorry to butt in,” the man said, not sounding sorry in the slightest, “but I couldn’t help overhearing. You do street fighting?”
Mark scoffed.
“No. I practice perfectly legal kickboxing.”
“No kidding!” The older man’s eyes sparkled, not drifting from Mark even as the bartender set a fresh pint of beer down in front of him. “I used to wrestle. Not like on TV, but like the Olympics.”
“Oh yeah? Greco-Roman?”
“Freestyle. But all my respect to the Greco-Roman guys. Heck, to the guys on TV too. They put in the work.” The stranger raised his pint in a toast. “Cheers to combat sports, am I right?”
His annoyance tempered by the sudden offer of camaraderie, Mark clinked his empty rocks glass against it.
“So, what was that about some legendary fighter?”
“Oh boy, here we go,” the bartender muttered. Setting another bourbon and soda down in front of Mark, they retreated from earshot.
“I take it you aren’t a local,” Mark said wryly.
“That’s a little complicated. I grew up around here, but I’ve been away for a while. Just got back.”
“Must have been gone a long time if you haven’t heard of the Klondike Kid. He was just some punk - if he was ever real. Yet every goddamn concussed tyro feels the need to compare any pro who wins a round to him. They’ve got no respect! As though trained fighters like us should feel honored being compared to some gutter mutt.”
The man laughed. Normally, Mark would have taken it as a disrespect, but there was something irresistibly agreeable in the stranger’s mien.
“When you’re a weed growing wild, hothouse plants all look like pansies and lilies to you. It isn’t until you try to compete with them that it clicks. By the time you realize all their rules and praxis serve a purpose, some ‘pansy’ has you flat on your ass!”
Mark narrowed his eyes at the man.
“Almost sounds like you know from experience.”
“I do. And the proof is in the pudding. I thought I knew it all back then. Boy, was I wrong!”
The man’s honesty was as refreshing as his positivity. For Mark, “honest” had always been synonymous with “harsh”. Being polite meant pulling your punches, and lying just to spare feelings didn’t help anyone. You had to face the truth to move forward, no matter how unpleasant it was. Yet the guy in front of him somehow managed to be straightforward without putting himself down or throwing anyone under the bus.
Aggressively positive folks were just as annoying as sad sack doomers, but that wasn’t the energy his new friend here was bringing. Even as Mark riled himself up over dumb nonsense, this guy took it all in stride. Mark envied him. Life would have been a lot easier with an attitude like that. It was a shame optimism didn’t come naturally to him.
“It’s nice to meet someone with some damned sense. Back at the studio, I gotta put up with everyone playing fantasy league with me and a guy who doesn't exist. ‘S friggin’ exhausting.”
Mark tossed back the watery remains of his second drink. He’d finished it while they’d been chatting, and his rant had gone on long enough that the ice had melted. Or maybe he’d been gripping the glass so tightly that the heat from his palm had done it. He hadn’t been paying attention.
“So this Klondike guy’s a legend, but you’ve never run into him?”
“No one has. Not in years. He could be dead in a ditch or a washed-up ol’ fart at this point for all anyone knows. An’ anyway, I’d kick ‘is ass five ways to Sunday if he ever showed ‘is face aroun’ere again.”
“You mean six ways to Sunday?” the bartender cut in as they passed by.
“I got Tuesdays off!” Turning back to his new friend, Mark pointed brusquely. “You know, we got a lot in common. I’m surprised we never met before.”
The man shrugged.
“Sometimes what you’re looking for is hiding right under your nose. But also, I did just get back from teaching abroad.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly looking for a new frien’, but hey, life’s funny like that.”
There was a loud buzzing as Mark’s phone vibrated in his jeans’ back pocket.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling it out and flipping it open. “Could be work.”
The stranger raised a hand in pardon.
“Anything else?” the bartender asked as they circled back around.
“Just the tab.”
Snapping his phone shut and groaning dramatically, Mark crumpled onto the bar with his head in his arms.
“Bad news?”
“Th’other guy on rotation tomorrow jus’ called out, an’ my manager wants me to pick up ‘is shift. At 6AM. A.K.A,” he said, holding up his phone to show the time, “in five hours!”
“Can’t you pass on it?”
“I need the cash.”
“I hear that. Say, I was about to head out myself. How about we split a cab?”
Stepping down unsteadily from his stool, Mark sighed.
“That’d be great, actually. I’ll be lucky ‘f I can find my way t’ the toilet right now, let alone my apartment.”
The bartender shouted after him not to piss in any of the trashcans as Mark sauntered down the hall leading to the restrooms.
“You aren’t going to tell him?” The bartender leaned over the counter to whisper conspiratorially with the blonde man. “The look on his face would be priceless.”
“Now, what would I go and do that for? We were having such a lovely time, and I’d hate to spoil the mood. Besides, he looked spitting mad. Do you really want me instigating a fist fight on your watch?”
“Tch. Fine, fine. Have it your way. Hang on, I’ll close out your tab. Maybe you can start a fight in the taxi and tell me about it later.”
* * *
The shrill buzz of his alarm clock jarred Mark awake. Rolling over and slapping the OFF button, he rubbed the crust from his eyes. The first hints of sunlight peeked through the gaps in the blinds of his bedroom’s singular window.
He tried to gain his bearings as his skull throbbed with a massive hangover, but for the life of him Mark couldn’t remember leaving the bar last night. Glancing up at the wall to be sure he was in his own bed, Mark noted his calendar hanging where it always did, his shifts for the next two weeks penciled in. A couple of his favorite movie posters hung here and there, announcing his fine tastes to the world - or at least to anyone who came into his bedroom, which was no one. It was his apartment all right. Mark supposed that was all that mattered.
Sitting up, Mark grabbed the glass of water on his nightstand and downed half of it in a single swallow. He reached for his phone, hoping in vain that his coworker had been able to go in after all, but paused. He never brought water to bed. Mark hated the idea of knocking it over in the middle of the night and getting any of his stuff wet. So where had the glass come from?
Checking around for anything else out of place, he found two more anomalies waiting on the nightstand: a couple Tylenol and a napkin from the bar with something scribbled on it. Tossing the pills back with the rest of the water, Mark picked up the note.
In neat, cursive letters appended with a phone number, it read simply, “Great to meet a fellow combat sports fan. Let’s get lunch sometime. -Steve, aka The Klondike Kid”
(art by guess)