B.G.

Scantily clad women walked by the bar in colors that would make a florist blush. The music boomed and strobe lights, lasers, and even more girls poured into the space like it was a pageant for Miss America. Artie Morrissey, a man the color of pecans, sat down with the Prophet Mohammad.

“You know, my brother took the train every weekday into New York City. Right from Delaware. He’d hop on in Wilmington and go right into the city and be at his office on the ninety-seventh floor of the North Tower by 7:30 in the morning. Every. Day. So you can fill in the rest. He was there that Tuesday in September. Then he wasn’t. Ever.”

“How was that? This drink you gave me is making me woozy,” Mohammad said.

“My old man was in the barracks in Beirut. He was just a second lieutenant at the time. He was saving Marines when a column of concrete toppled. Drink more.”

Mohammad followed the instruction.

“And I’m just trying to sort out my life. I was just a kid when my dad died but Freddy… I was in college that fateful day in 2001.”

“Do you have a napkin?” Mohammad asked, his face looked sunken. He clutched his stomach.

“So, I’m a major. Working with this outfit still in Iraq. Go figure. It’s good pay. Good combat pay with bonuses. It still sucks. Doesn’t suck as much not being able to defend a nation worthy of it.”

Mohammad gave dry heaves. He grabbed at his mouth to keep the contents of his stomach from exploding all over the bar.

“I’ve got a wife and twin girls.” Morrissey reached for his smartphone and showed Mohammad the pictures. The Prophet nodded profusely, struggling to hold his “liquor.”

“They’ll see me for the next two months and then I’m back in the sandbox. Morrissey motioned for the bartender. She was pert and bubbly with dark brown hair and almond skin.

“Get me another whiskey with water and get my friend here another ‘B.G.’ Thanks.”

“‘B.G.’? What is this ‘B.G.?’” Mohammad asked.

“Never mind that…So, where was I? Oh, the girls. They’re at least old enough to know Daddy is watching out for them, for their mother. We’ve been together for twelve years and married for five. We waited to have kids until I settled into my new job and we could afford a house and a college fund for them.”

Mohammad was still conscious but his eyes were rolling back in his head which laid on the bar. The drinks arrived.

“Here’s a toast to the despicable, devious, vicious cretins that have murdered loved ones in your name, or at least Allah’s anyway.” Mohammad lacked the vigor to raise his glass, so Morrissey aided him in that regard.

“I think I should call it an evening,” Mohammad declared, not paying attention to Morrissey’s words.

“I’m pretty sure I sent at least twenty of your jihadists to Jannah. They’ve confirmed nine, but with our armaments it shows you never can tell, am I right?” Morrissey flashed a formidable grin.

“What the hell drink is this!?” Mohammad questioned.

“Easy, easy. Relax, Mo.’ It’s bacon grease,” Morrissey admitted.

“Beef? Turkey? Goat?” Mohammad questioned.

“You wish. It’s pork grease. You just drank a shot of pork grease. Now, your insides will rot and decompose like a pint of Drano passed through your system. You may feel ill now. But you’ll be dead by morning. Go to hell, you son of a bitch.”

Morrissey finished his whiskey and asked for his bill.

“Put it all on this guy. He’s loaded.”

The cute bartender looked at Mohammad. “It appears in more ways than one. I’ll call an Uber for your buddy,” she said.

Morrissey straightened his collar and turned around and left the nightclub.