From: lewj99@yahoo.com

AT THE BAR (BANNISTER, PART 1)
by JL <lewj99@yahoo.com>

The eight men sat at the bar, elbows propped up, beer bottles accumulating fast.  
They shot the breeze for a while, listened to the honky-tonk music blaring from 
the jukebox, but eventually the talk turned to work. 
Or, more specifically, the lack of it.  All eight worked with various demolition 
crews around the city, but things had slowed considerably, ever since the 
Bannister Demolition Company appeared on the scene a year ago.  Nobody seemed to 
know anything about the new company, except that it always came in under budget 
and ahead of schedule, and was winning contracts left and right.  No word on who 
ran it, who worked for it, what equipment they used.  But one thing was for 
sure; if this pattern kept up, the men at the bar, plus dozens of others in the 
city, would have to find another line of work.

"So what's the fuckin' deal with Bannister?" asked one of the men, the newest on 
the scene.  "I was told I could make good money in this biz.  I got two young 
kids to feed, an' I ain't seen a paycheck in weeks."

"I heard they're gonna get the arena deal," another man added.  "Bid came in 
half a mil lower than anyone else.  Must be cuttin' corners like mad."

"Are you kiddin' me?" thundered his neighbor, a rough looking dude with heavily 
tattooed forearms.  "I was countin' on that one.  Ya know, guys, I think it's 
time we paid Bannister a visit.  Rough him up a little.  Show him who's in 
charge in this town. 
Whaddya say?"

Cheers erupted up and down the bar, along with promises to kick Bannister's ass, 
make him show some respect.  All eight raised their beers for a toast, but 
before they could drink, they were interrupted by a voice behind them:  "I don't 
think that's such a good idea.  You don't know what you're going up against."

The men at the bar spun around, surprised.  The rough looking dude spoke first:  
"Who the hell asked you? 
And what do you know about Bannister anyway?"

"More than any of you.  Name's Ricky Drake, use'ta be in the business fourteen 
years.  Worked as a foreman downstate."

"Congratulations," the young guy snickered.  "Now shut the fuck up.  We got some 
plannin' to do here."

"Have it your way," Ricky retorted.  "But if you're gonna go up against 
Bannister, you better have the goddam army behind you.  And maybe the Air Force, 
for good measure."

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?" the rough looking dude asked, clearly 
agitated.

Ricky sighed deeply.  "Well, I suppose it's time I told someone.  I've been 
keepin' this shit to myself way too long."

"All happened about fourteen months ago.  Me and some guys were workin' 
downstate, diggin' up an old gas station.  Pretty standard stuff, just had to 
knock down the garage and dig up the underground tanks.  We was goin' along 
great, tore the building down, had one of the two tanks outta the ground ahead 
of schedule, and just started diggin' up the ground for the other one.  Then one 
mornin', we all show up as usual, but somethin's a little bit off.  The 
backhoe'd been moved 20 or 30 feet.  At first I thought kids might have broken 
into it, but then I seen somethin' else.

The bucket was pointin' sideways, near perfect 90 degree angle.  Never seen 
anything like it.  So I go over to check it out, but it's not just the bucket, 
the whole fuckin' shaft was twisted, down near the base.  An' there were all 
these indentations - took me a minute to figure out they looked like fingers. 
Thick fingers.  Like someone had clamped down on the shaft and twisted it in 
their bare hands.  'Course I knew - or thought I knew - that was nuts, that 
there had to be some other explanation, some crazy machine I'd never heard of.  
But that didn't add up, if there'd been a machine come in, there would'a been 
tracks.  And there weren't any.

So I'm about to tell the other guys what'd happened when this beat-up old van 
pulls up.  Guy honks a couple of times, like he wants me to come over.  Rolls 
down the window, and even from twenty feet away, I can tell he's a big 
motherfucker.  Absolutely massive. 
Neck like a treetrunk.  Then he leans one arm out the window, real casual.  I 
tell ya, I never seen anything like it.  You know those guys on the Strongest 
Man shows, arms run 23, 24 inches?  Imagine that, but ripped.  Bicep looked like 
it was made outta granite, veins poppin' out all over.  Ain't never seen an arm 
that big in my life.

So he leans out the window, smilin' but cocky as shit.
 Looked like a damn surfer on steroids, spiky blond streaked hair, long 
sideburns, wraparound shades.  And young too, must'a been early twenties.  I 
still hadn't connected him to the backhoe, but he looked like he might have some 
info.  'Havin' some trouble?' he says, all smiles.  So I get tough, demandin' if 
he knows who did this, where their equipment is.  Tell him whoever did it could 
be thrown in jail.  But he just rolls his eyes, an' goes, 'C'mon hoss, you mean 
you ain't figured it out yet?'  Exact words.

By now the other guys had come over, an' the kid gets a look in his eyes.  Steps 
outta the van, muscles bulgin' everywhere, damn near burstin' out of his tank 
top.  Before anyone can say anything, he leans down, slides one hand under the 
front bumper of the van, and lifts the whole fuckin' thing off the ground like 
it don't weigh nothin'.  Keeps liftin' it til the back end scrapes against the 
ground, then just holds it in place.  Not even breakin' a sweat.  Definitely got 
our attention.  So he glances down at that swelled-up bicep, then over to the 
backhoe, and finally I put two and two together.  He must'a seen it in my face, 
cause he let the van drop and says 'Looks like you could use my help here, 
hoss.'  Sonuvabitch wouldn't stop callin' me hoss, I remember that.  But he just 
takes his shades off, starts askin' me all these questions about the tank, how 
big it is, how deep it is, that sort of thing.  Sounded like he was gonna take 
over the operation, but I couldn't figure out what he had in mind, since the 
backhoe was wrecked.

So I tell the guy there's no way he can use the backhoe, and - I'll never forget 
this as long as I live - he just flexes those arms of his an' goes 'I got all 
the fuckin' equipment I need right here.' Biceps looked like goddam artillery 
shells.  Well, I'll tell ya, I wasn't gonna argue.  I pulled the guys back to a 
safe distance, I wasn't gonna let anyone get hurt on my watch.  

Like I said, we'd just started diggin' up the ground, but there was still a 
lotta work to be done.  Guy walks over, lifts his leg, and pounds it into the 
ground like an elephant stompin' a mouse.  Goddam concrete cracks right open.  
Does it a couple more times, breakin' the concrete up, but it was slow goin'.  
So he kneels down, stretches his arms out, and starts slammin' the concrete with 
his fists.  I swear to God, I could feel the entire ground shake.  One of my 
guys even fell over.  He kept goin' at it, pulverizin' the concrete.  Soon he'd 
broken right through a foot of concrete, and started diggin' out soil.  Huge 
clumps of earth and broken concrete flyin' everywhere.  Me and the other guys 
could only stand there.  I don't think we said anythin' the whole time.

Only took him about ten minutes 'fore he dug up the ground over the tank.  Kid 
was barely even breathin' hard.  Looks around a bit, spots the valve, you know, 
where they put the gas in?  Grabs it in one hand, and starts pullin'.  Christ, 
you should'a seen his arm by then, tricep stickin' out like a horseshoe, forearm 
like somethin' out of an old Popeye cartoon, just loaded up with muscle.  And 
with one motherfuckin' arm, he starts rippin' the tank outta the ground.  No 
shit, I swear.  But it was still stuck in there pretty good, so the tank starts 
bucklin' in the middle.  And let me tell you, those fuckers are built solid.

But he doesn't care, justs keeps liftin' and bendin' all that steel til the 
valve breaks off in his hand. 
That pisses him off right good, so he crunches it up like it was tin foil, and 
manages to get a hold of the tank where the valve went in.  Gets this crazy look 
on his face, and starts pullin' again.  Arm damn near exploded, shoulders must'a 
been four feet wide, couldn't make out his neck.  Shirt rips open right up his 
back.  And he starts liftin' the whole tank up again, still only usin' that one 
arm.  Cracks were spreadin' everywhere over the concrete.  By this time he's 
screamin', swearin', the whole bit.  Just looked completely outta control.

Finally he tears it outta the ground, and hoists the whole thing over his head.  
I don't know what one of those things weighs - seven, eight tons at least, and 
he's musclin' it up like it's a trophy or somethin'. 
Sonuvabitch had it bent right across the middle, not to mention all those cracks 
where he grabbed it.  So he looks at me an' goes, 'Yeah, let's see your fuckin' 
backhoe do THAT, hoss,' then launches the whole thing up.  Must'a gone sixty 
feet in the air 'fore it crashed down in the vacant lot next door.  

Well, I didn't know what the hell to say.  One hand, he wrecked the backhoe, but 
on the other, he worked faster than any equipment I ever seen.  So I ask him if 
he'd like to work for the crew.  Hell, I even offered to let him take over as 
foreman, but he said no, said somethin' aboiut workin' solo.  One thing he did 
want was to find out how to get in the business, how to set up his own company.  
So I told him.  Any of y'all would have done the same thing in my position. 
But I knew then and there my days in the biz were over, there was no way I could 
compete with that freak of nature.  He was only a little winded after rippin' 
that tank outta the ground.  Who knows what the fuck he's capable of when he 
starts testin' his limits."

The eight men sat, silent, transfixed.  Ricky sucked back the rest of his beer.  
"You guys probably think I'm nuts.  I don't blame you.  But every word I've told 
you is the truth.  Nothin' left out."  (That wasn't entirely true; Ricky had 
purposely failed to mention that he was hard as a rock watching all the action, 
and that he'd blown a fairly sizable wad soon after.)

Ricky tried to read the men's faces.  Half looked convinced by the sincerity and 
detail of his story; the other half remained skeptical.  He got up to pay his 
tab.  "Believe me if you want.  Doesn't matter to me," he said over his shoulder 
on the way out.  "But you're fuckin' crazy if you decide to mess with Bannister.  
Dude plays by his own set of rules."

And with that, he was gone.  But, finally, the eight men had a new topic of 
conversation.

END OF PART 1


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