Centipede that walks like a man

The two men are talking, oblivious. Spearle sits across from them while their voices lurch and strut, the snaky threads of an argument. The sound is like two phlegmy hagfish debating ownership of a rotting carcass.

He who produces the most mucus wins said argument.

The bar is smokey, and crowded. The clientele are quiet. The dark, chill air is hushed with muted talk of quiet money. Very very quiet money.

This is a quiet bar.

Spearle stares at his beer and listens to the conversation with little interest. The older of the talking pair, a balding man with a patchy beard named Asaph, is still slowly pronouncing his estimation of the relative worth of Spearle's offer. By Spearle's count, he has repeated the same line of thought three times in the past ten minutes, each time producing different numbers. The younger one, Wade, seems alternately anxious and bored. He vacillates between sharp, coughed disagreement with Asaph and almost baffled indifference.

Asaph's eyes drift lazily around the bar as he mutters. Spearle keeps his gaze on his beer, waiting patiently and without thought.

This is all academic.

This is all necessary, and yet totally unnecessary.

He flicks his eyes at Wade. The younger man sports a bewildering mustache. He wears the air of a coma patient recently awakened to find the entire world resurfaced with mohair yarn. He seems surprised and slightly irritated by everything that is transpiring.

Wade cuts into Asaph's monologue with a sour comment. Asaph's eyes momentarily focus. Without turning, he congeals his voice into a thicker spill of glutinous speculation, smothering the younger man's acid tone. Wade bites his interjection off. His viscid locution flowing momentarily to a halt, Asaph sets his gaze on Spearle, waiting.

Spearle continues staring at his beer.

"I think you're full of shit. Did you fucking hear me?"

Spearle finally looks up at Asaph. The two lock eyes momentarily. Spearle's clouded gaze imparts no meaning to the speaker. Neither acknowledgement nor ignorance.

"When did I ask whether you believe me?"

"No way...what you're saying is fucking horseshit."

"Did I ask if you believed me?"

"Look..."

"Did I ask if you believed me?"

"No, but..."

"I don't give a fuck if you believe me. That's not what I asked."

"Yeah, hey...."

"What did I ask?"

"..."

Wade watches the exchange anxiously. His boredom is frothing over into frustration.

"What did I ask?"

"You asked how much."

"Yes. How much?"

"Look, even if you had...like...captured...Chuck Lister...I mean, seriously...Do you know how that fucking sounds? I mean, do you know how that fucking sounds? But even if you did have the guy, no way Grissholm is gonna pay for him. No way those fucking guys will pay what you're asking."

Wade cuts in, "They'll chop your fucking balls off instead."

"Yeah, no shit."

"They'll fucking find you and they'll chop your fucking balls off."

"Plus, if DeBoyo finds out you're trying to sell his brother to the Lord, he'll fucking go nuts."

"Yeah. And then he'll find you and cut your nuts off, too."

Spearle relaxes. He takes one pull from his beer.

"So, let's just put this out there. No one will pay for Chuck Lister. Not Grissholm, not DeBoyo, not anyone. They'll just come and cut my balls off instead?"

"Yeah, dumbass, so I wouldn't go around telling people what you just told us."

"They'll find me?"

"Yeah they'll fucking find you."

"You're sure?"

"Fuck yeah I'm sure. Sure as shit stinks, I'm sure."

"How?"

"How what?"

"How will they find me?"

"Fuck if I know. They just will."

"Right."

Asaph thumps the table hard with his gaunt fist. One or two eyes shift briefly in the direction of their booth. No one actually looks.

"What the fuck is your problem, dude? I'm telling you this bullshit is gonna get your ass fucking dead. This is fucking bullshit. If you have a fucking deathwish, go somewhere else and fucking die. Get the fuck out of my face with this fucking crap. What the fuck? I mean, seriously, what in the fuck, dude?"

Spearle looks at Asaph, then at Wade. Maybe he smiles a little. The two won't be sure afterwards, but then, they'll never mention it to each other either.

"So you're sure they'll come after me and they'll know where to find me?"

"This conversation is fucking over."

Wade and Asaph slide out of the booth like meat rigged to a conveyer. Asaph throws a couple wadded bills on the scarred tabletop. The finish is scuffed. Spearle's unemptied beer stands sentinel over the soggy lumps of cash.

The two leave without saying anything. Spearle downs his beer, pays the tab, and strolls out into the dank evening.