A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, though I had prayed it wouldn’t. The Two Bones thugs shifted so their group squared off against the Red Thumbs fellow, an enforcer by the looks of him. He certainly bore enough scars on his face and balded pate to speak to semi-successful life of violence.

In all directions, whenever it seemed safe to do so, the patrons of the bar found reasons to excuse themselves, as long as they could do so without crossing between the factions now locked in a staring contest. I gave up my supplications to the Almighty in regards to the sweating and took up a silent mantra that their stares would remain on each other.

I tapped the bar again gently. Without really thinking about it, I patted my vest pocket, making sure it was still there, still secure, still burning a hole in my pocket and my fate. Stuck at the bar, nowhere to go, I had to watch the drama unfold.

Drama never did much for me. Frankly, I always preferred comedies or burlesque, better for my nervous disposition.