It took a long time to get back to sleep. It was a new day and with it new possibilities in my hunt for the creature known as the Abaddon. I had lost too many days; the trail would have gone cold and its destination a complete mystery. Gabriel wasn’t wrong in that regard. I had sacrificed much for Billy Godwin and his strange old companion.
I made my way downstairs to the bar with the thought of a bottle of Jack. It was easier to numb the pain than to suffer that was the first thing Walter ever taught me. Sure, he was talking about channeling that anger towards training, and it worked for a time, but as the years grew on, I found that this way worked much better.
“Hey there, pal,” said the bartender as I entered the bar. “Did you hear the news over the wire?”
“It’s been a long night,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I reckon its bad news.”
“How’d you know?” he asked. “You got some of that pre-cognition jazz I keep hearing about?”
“It’s nothing of the sort, when is it ever good news over the wire? That tech’s so old that they don’t bother using it unless they’ve got bad news… that or blubbering rednecks bellyaching about equal rights.”
“Aye, a real action hero died last night,” he said with a quiver of his lip. “Patrick Swayze passed away from cancer.”
“No shit?”
“I kid you not, pal,” said the bartender. “The Duke himself… I mean, George fucking McLintock… the greatest actor ever to grace the silver screens; may god rest his soul in peace.”
“I’m going to need a drink,” I said, grabbing a stool at the bar and dropping a few bucks. “Make it two.”
“Jack Daniels?” he asked.
“I’m gonna need the strongest drink ya got, mister. I’m suddenly findin’ myself in dire need o’ something stiff.”
The news cut me to the bone. I had spent countless nights watching his movies with my dad. He was a real hero to me, practically raised me when my parents were busy working the land.
The bartender passed me two shots of the foulest thing I’d ever smelled. I grabbed one of the shots and poured it onto the hardwood floor and pounded the other back as fast as I could.
“Sorry partner,” I said, “Hand me a rag… I was just pouring one for the dead.”
“For Mr. Swayze you can pour out all the drinks you want,” he said.
The bartender poured another two shots and passed one to me. We sat there for a moment lost in our memories and saying silent prayers for a man that had touched our heart in so many ways.
“To Patrick Swayze… the toughest son of a bitch in this realm,” the bartender said with a shot raised high in the air. “There’ll never be another like him.”