“What the hell are you doing here?” a clearly rattled Terry Anderson mutters over his tumbler of house whiskey.

Scott Douglas registers the correspondence a few seconds before comprehending its intended direction. He steadies himself on the wobbling bar stool and bellys up; as he puts together the question, direction and more importantly from  whom it originated.

The Holy Ground, an Irish Pub, is dimly lit in a light orange hue. The normal Irish-eque decoration adorn the walls and bar back. The green topped bar shines with the exception of expertly worn spots coinciding with the weary and drunken arms of many who’ve passed through here.

“If it isn’t the ‘Idol,’ as I live and breathe.” Scott snarks.

The bartender points in Scott’s direction while pulling a draft for a pre-existing patron, “What’ll it be?”

Anderson, from a stool away, attempts to repeat his prose, only to be interrupted by Scott’s drink order. “Hey …” Anderson proclaims with all the slur and bravado of an aging man; who’s tolerance has not yet informed his intake. “... hey! I said you … you’re here!”

The barkeep lifts a napkin with a pinky finger all while clasping Scott's drink and sets down the order in one smooth motion.

"Tab?”

Scott motions agreeably and the bartender turns to the touch screen system but not before cutting her eyes at the “Idol.”

“Why else, Terry? I assume for the same reason you’re here. Check out DEFIANCE.” Scott says as he pulls the glass to his mouth muffling his last words.

“Look, Sub Mob… hightail it back home before you get in over your head.” Terry responds indignantly, “This isn’t where you want to be. Not now. Definitely, not now.”

Terry throws back the rest of his drink and slams the glass down on the bar. Stumbling off his barstool, he steadies himself against the edge, and guides himself down toward Scott; swaying like an old flag in the wind.

“Don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya’, Mopples!” Terry barks, “You don’t want to be anywhere around this place when it all goes down.”

Scott, still getting a kick out of Terry’s inebriation, reaches into his jacket pocket to fish out a pack of cigarettes. “Well, Terry ... “ Scott replies, pulling one from the back and searching for a light, the bar tender interjects.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re smoke free. The whole city.”

It takes Scott a second or two to compute and get over a city known for such decadence as Mardi Gra would impose a smoking ban.  

“Look,” Terry starts in again. “Go back to whatever piss poor section of Seattle you crawled out of. It’s for you own good. Go back to that girlfriend of yours.”

Scott immediately turns from simply humoring a drunk to stone faced with a hint a rage just behind the eyes. He turns to the target of his new found aggression.

“I’ll stop you right there, Terry.” Scott seathes, “Your word hasn’t ever meant dick, and it won’t now. And if you bring that subject up again you’ll wish you were nowhere to be found … when it all goes down.”

Scott turns back toward the bar and retrieves his drink.

Terry, unaffected by the threat of force or too out of it to comprehend, sloppily makes his way to the door.

“You’ve been warned.” he blurts while slipping out into the night air.

Scott stares forward stoically as the door slams with a violent crack. Unphased, he finishes off the glass and rests it back down on the bar with a crisp click of glass and tinkling of ice remenants. The bartender takes her cue and makes her way back down to his end of the bar.

“You know that guy?” she asks while refilling Scott’s glass.

“We’ve had some run ins.” Scott laments as he reaches out for the replenished glass.

“He’s a dick...”

“Agreed.”

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