The World is a China Shop

We're a bar, and we’re a decent place. We’re not sponsoring any little league teams but no one hears about any trouble here. I could say for certain that we were not their type of bar. My head snapped an involuntary double take after I saw them walk in, and then back to the notepad in my hands. The muscles on the back of neck were taught with every instinct begging me to look back at the nine men that entered my bar. All nine in uniform, each the same, all terrifying; a proverbial Hydra each careening their heads over the others to take in the place. They wore Luchador masks with red and yellow around the mouth and eyes. The faded patch of a kicking red bull adorned each of their leather jackets on the back.

I did my best to seem like I didn’t notice until I turned to see one standing a mere 3 feet from me across the bar. My rigid chest made it hard to breathe and I could feel the color welling up behind my glassy Irish skin. His eyes gazed unerringly, his mouth hung open slightly. He stood resolute until he pointed to one of the bottles of whiskey and slowly said “10 please”. He turned on his heel and sauntered towards their table of choice. Do I serve them? I shouldn’t, I reserve the right as the owner and operator of this establishment to refuse service when I feel it is necessary. This is not their kind of bar. The heels of their boots should peel off of sticky floors, they’re elbows should rest on chipping windowsills caked with a hundred sloppy coats of paint, their nostrils drowned in an intoxicating melange from decades of cigarette smoke and dust. Like I said this was not their kind of bar.

My tread was slow and deliberate, my hand was as steady as my failing resolve could make it as I carried a tray with 10 shots on it towards their table. Only nine meant this might just be a scouting party, but I have no choice, I don’t want to be roped into a bull fight. You see that’s how these guys do it, they antagonize and get you to initiate, and then they fight until you submit. I’ve heard stories, terrible stories where men fight and fight only submit when the gang threatens to amputate fingers. I don’t know if that’s true but I won’t test them, I’ll just play along. I begin to gently place a shot in front of each man, I circle the table until I’m left with the last one. Before I can ask they all raise their glass and look at me. I freeze. Oh no they’re here for me, they must be. I pick up the glass and raise it preparing myself for whatever this gesture may invite. They all swing their glasses back and I do the same. I frantically nod, force a smile and race back behind the bar.

They are violent but that’s not what’s terrifying. Everyone knows them but no one knows anything about them. Who they are, their name, or even what they are; all we know is the sign of the bull and their slogan. “The World is a China Shop”. This of course implies that they are bull and their chaos is total and directionless. But scarier still is their precision and scope of power. One story I know to be true is about the FBI agent who tried to infiltrate their group a decade ago. After a few days of this man trying to find a way to join their crew, the gang disappeared. We thought they were scared and that they had fled. Until some showed up at his house dressed in blue polos and khakis, the unofficial uniform of federal agents, except they kept the masks and they all began to claim they were him. They had his name, copies of his license, his badge. The local FBI began receiving calls from the gang all claiming to be him. They even showed up at his children’s school claiming to be their father. In essence they were reverse infiltrating the FBI! Other undercover agents in different parts of state all reported seeing these men in masks around corners or watching from a distance. The FBI went haywire and the town was crawling with federal agencies asking questions for a month. The one thing they wanted to know the most was how the gang could possibly know that kind of information; but we hadn’t a clue.

And they ruin businesses on a whim, oh god how they tear them down and throw the ashes to the wind! Sometimes it’s blatant, other times it’s almost impossible to say if it was the result of any human action. People still can’t say for sure if the gang was fully responsible for the Flower Festival riot of 03. It started when Micky’s Auto Repair Shop experienced missing equipment, power outages and increasingly frequent bouts of arson which forced them to temporarily close while the police investigated. This was almost certainly the work of the gang since they were seen in the area more than usual. Meanwhile on the other side of town Ted’s Auto Shop was experiencing some more acute issues. The potholes near the shop seemed to expand and multiply, the motor oil had enough sand in it to damage engines, and the fuel contained excessive amounts of water. Ted swears he didn’t know what was happening but people got so upset they went to the last Auto shop in the center of town.

This last place racked up such an extensive workload that the amount of cars flowed from their lot into the street as people began to illegally park in the street with no where else to park. This prevented the Flower Festival Parade from running it’s normal course through Main Street. The Mayor’s office was called, and in turn the police were called. Tension boiled over between the owners of the cars, the shop owner, parade organizers, and the police. It escalated from yelling, to a few brawls, and finally to a riot. Many people reported seeing the gang watching from windows, and a few reported hearing a hollow ringing laughter echo over the tumult of the crowd. It’s uncertain if Ted’s trouble was their doing but the timing was too convenient and it worked out perfectly in the favor of the gang. They deal in misfortune and they hold a fierce monopoly on chaos. So if you ask me I’d say it was them, which is why I say this is not their kind of bar.

I tried to busy myself behind the bar but their periodic hushed whispering kept fanning the flames of my justified anxiety. I slid through the door to the backroom and hugged the wall trying to keep my labored breathing as quiet as possible. They weren’t leaving, were they waiting for something? And that’s when I heard it. Laughter. It’s rumble was stifled at first until it rose in chorus with other more fevered cackles. My breathing became near impossible, my brain was unable to focus on anything but the adrenaline amplified sound of their revelry in my shaking cranium. I leaned on the back of a chair trying to remain upright.

What frantic strain of Providence has deemed it necessary for this Minotaur to barrel it’s way into my bacchanalian chapel; and for me, it’s humble sage to be tied to the altar and suffer it’s wrath? I sat with my hands gripping my head. “This is not their kind of bar!” I hiss between my rigid teeth, praying they don’t hear my weak protest. My conscious was increasingly unconvinced that this violation would be subdued, and that the coming storm would be turned away by divine justice. The laughter began to falter as the gang’s scouting party began to rise and file out the door. I resigned myself to fate and decided to look my arbiter of bedlam in the eye before he feeds me through the grinder. I peeked through the plastic window in the backroom door, and there he was, the one who spoke to me, staring as he did before from the front door. We stared, neither dared to breathe. He turned on his heel and disappeared, I slowly sunk to the floor.

This was it, chaos incarnate has descended and ordained me as an unwilling actor in it’s unfolding schemes. They will be back, that much is certain. The eye of the hurricane is upon me, a choice must be made before the storm redoubles it’s efforts. Will I be here when it does? Will I see the coming onslaught run it’s course?

You know what? Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps this is their kind of bar.