Free Bad Games by Jeff Menapace

them—I’m not leaving because those hillbillies are looking to start something. Let them fucking try.”
    Arty put his hand on his brother’s forearm. It was as solid as a baseball bat from the angry grip he had on his beer. “We don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves, bro. Two guys from out of town fighting with locals will put a beacon on our backs. It’s nearly closing time—let’s just let it go and leave.”
    Jim watched the three men lean in and whisper to one another. The shift in their body language said it all. “They’re not gonna let us leave here without a fight, Arty.”
    Arty glanced down the end of the bar and saw exactly what his brother saw. The three men were fidgeting, psyching themselves up. “Well if it comes to that I’ve got a back up plan I took care of earlier.”
    “What plan?”
    Arty didn’t answer; his attention was now locked on the three men approaching them. The largest of the three took lead with the remaining two close behind. The leader stood well over six feet and carried significant bulk. His torso was covered in flannel and his thick legs were wrapped in faded denim that ended with a pair of giant construction boots. His greasy hair was long, tangled, and ink black.
    “So your girl finally showed up, huh?” the leader asked Arty, his two friends standing behind him, arms folded, grinning at the insult. They were both shorter than the leader but carried similar girth and attire. The one on the left was slick bald with a scar running through his left eyebrow. The one on the right sported the same greasy black hair as the leader in addition to a heavy goatee.
    Jim went to stand up, but Arty grabbed his shoulder and guided him back down onto the stool. “We were just on our way out,” Arty said.
    “No, not yet you’re not,” the leader said. He gulped the last of his beer then slammed the empty bottle down onto the bar.
    That was when Arty and Jim first spotted the ring. It was silver and huge and practically engulfed the man’s thick ring finger. A skull was engraved into it.
    “Before you leave I’d like you to buy us all a couple of rounds.” The man motioned to his friends on either side of him, then to the giggling girls at the end of the bar who seemed to be enjoying every second of the show.
    “We’re not buying you a round,” Jim said.
    “No?” the leader said. “Why not?” He extended his arm and knocked over Arty’s beer, the remains gradually pumping their way out through the brown neck of the bottle, spreading into a small pool on the counter, then finally a slow drip over the edge of the bar.
    Arty glanced down at his spilt beer then looked straight ahead. He had a strange calm over him that didn’t seem to fit under the given circumstances. The leader seemed to sense this too; a look of both confusion and anger meshed on his thick brow. The man inched closer, made a tight fist, rested it on the bar so that both brothers could swoon over it in all its destructive glory.
    “Nice ring,” Arty said without even looking at it. He was still staring straight ahead, still inappropriately cool. “Very original.”
    The leader’s brow furrowed some more. Arty’s sarcasm would have been evident to most, but to this man it proved cumbersome. His response was primitive: he opened his fist and closed it again, tighter this time, the skull ring jutting forward like an extra silver knuckle.
    A moment followed where no one spoke. A country song was crooning from the speakers overhead. The bartender—who seemed content to keep his back to the affair—clinked and clanked an array of glasses in the square tub of blue liquid next to the bar’s sink. The drunken gibberish from the remaining patrons—all aging, defeated men, oblivious to anything around them but the unfair world—periodically rose over the country singer’s voice whenever they made frustrated, incoherent shouts to all that might listen.
    “Oh for fuck’s sake!” Jim finally