The New Union

We had been sitting in the parking lot, for what seemed like hours. I had about three cigarettes left, and I knew it wouldn't be enough to get me by. Not on this night. This was the night we had been waiting for. Weeks of planning, and advertising, all led to this. Everyone knew the score. Everyone knew what we had to do, and that was send a message. We had to send a warning shot to the whole world that we were here, and we were not to be ignored. I smoked the cigarette I had in my mouth to the butt, and threw it on the ground outside. I watched it as it burned up and Tyrone turned the radio up a little louder.

"Do you really have to do that now?" I asked.

"Hell yea I do, this is my shit!" he replied. Tyrone started to rap every last word of the song, hand gesturing every action it talked about. I couldn't help but crack a nervous smile, and light up another cigarette. Two left now, damn, I was going to have to buy some soon. Nobody in the car smoked, or I'd bum one off of them. Most people who smoke want to quit smoking as soon as they can. Not me, I actually enjoyed it. I've never seen it as a dirty habit. I've only viewed it as a pricey one. In fact, I think its more of a status symbol myself. It pisses me off that its banned indoors, just because a few waitresses caught cancer. Hell, they knew the deal, they could have quit any time they wanted. Nobody was forcing them to stay. Another song started, and it was finally one my colleague didn't know. He turned the radio back down, and I could finally hear myself think again.

"Come on God, if you even exist, the anticipation is killing me," my brain said. Usually this bar was filled with nothing but inbred pieces of shit. What was it tonight? A meeting of the Wall Street Journal club? Every single person who went into this place was wearing a suit or something equally as formal. What was going on? This was not your average night at Bernie's Bar and Grill, and it was starting to really irritate me. I was just about ready to say fuck it and call it a night. when I seen the headlights of a pick up truck pull into the lot. Tyrone turned the radio off, and we watched as four people piled out of the four by four.

They were a cocky bunch, judging by their body language. They were also rowdy as hell, nearly scaring an old man to death on their way into the bar. I hopped out to inspect their truck, and try to get an idea for what exactly I was dealing with. The first thing I noticed was the rebel flag sticker on their back window. A symbol of racism and hate. A symbol that I was trying my best to fight against. These were definitely our guys. I finished my cigarette and put it out on the side mirror of their truck. Then I gave the signal, and two of my associates threw the side door of the van open and moved into position. I lit up another cigarette, one more left after that one. It wouldn't matter, we were almost done here. I started to make my way into the bar, and my partners began cutting the tires of the truck.

I sucked down my cigarette as quick I could and walked inside. A large gentleman with a shirt that read 'staff' stopped me to check my ID. I was twenty six, but I was told on more than one occasion, I looked more like I was nineteen. I showed the man my ID and gave him a nice big, exaggerated, smile. I approached the bar, drawing stares from everyone inside. They all knew I wasn't from here. Even the people in suits could tell, this was not my normal hangout. When I got to the bar, the bartender cracked a smile, and set down the glass he was cleaning.

"Never seen you here before. Then again, I've never seen a lot of these people here before," the bartender explained. "Its a weird night. Anyways, what can I get for ya?"

"I'll have a White Russian," I answered. I always loved White Russians, I just never liked the name. I couldn't help but wonder why such a delicious drink could be ruined by such a race oriented name. Why couldn't it just be called a Russian?

"Fancy drinker eh?" the bartender replied. "Not many people drink those around here."

"Yea, well I'm not many people," I told him. He laughed and made my drink. I took one sip, and stared at the glass, making my judgment of the beverage. Too much cream, not enough vodka. Oh well, it would get me through this next conversation. I looked across the sea of faces in the rundown bar, searching for my marks. I finally spotted them at a corner table, watching two relatively unknown college teams play football. I slowly made my way over to them, and dreamed about that last cigarette. Damn it would be nice to have that right now, but all I had was this watered down White Russian to drink. I took a huge gulp of it, and when I put down my glass I was right next to them. They didn't even notice I was staring at them, listening in on their conversation. I cleared my throat and they all turned to face me.

"Can we help you?" one of them asked agitated by my mere presence. He was wearing a hat with the same flag I had seen outside. I knew that could be my weak point to get them to say what I needed. I had to make damn sure these were our guys. I took a deep breath and pressed record on the phone in my pocket.

"I don't know if you can or not actually. I noticed your hat, and I just have to ask, why the confederate flag?"

"Well, my family is from the south. That's what this flag represents. It represents the southern states, where we're all from," the man confidently answered.

"Ah, see that's where you're mistaken my friend. It represents the confederacy. An institution that believed the enslavement of African Americans was not only just, but necessary. So necessary in fact, that they would start a war over it. One that split our nation in half and turned brother against brother. So basically, you're saying that racism, in essence, is just, and necessary. Its a common misconception that the flag represents the south. In a way it does, but to me it represents slavery and hatred."

"Well hell, I think that's one of the things the south got right," the man answered.

"Fucking stupid niggers," another said under his breath.

"Look, I can tell you're not from around here, but I'm not in the mood for you're fucking anti-racist, save the world bull shit right now. So do us all a favor and get the fuck out of this bar before you get your scrawny little ass kicked. because unless you have some nigger friends waiting outside to help you, I don't see you taking the four of us. So please, just get the fuck out of here."

I finished my drink, and set the empty glass on their table. I then cracked my neck, and took another deep breath. I thought about that cigarette, still in my pocket, still intact. I was almost done.

"Well, I suppose there's no real use in trying to explain to redneck imbeciles, now is there? You people wouldn't listen to reason if it was coming out of Megan Fox's bent over ass."

That was just the spark I needed, and I could tell by their faces they were furious. They threw down their chairs, and the one wearing a hat got so close to my face, I could tell he didn't use mouthwash too often. They yelled so many obscenities at me, I started to tune them out. Most of what they said made no sense, and even if it did, their horrible rendition of southern accents made what they said unintelligible. The bartender saw what was happening, and decided to make an attempt to stop what was transpiring.

"Hey! If you guys are gonna fight, take that shit outside! I don't want it in this bar!"

I took out my last cigarette and put it in my mouth, still trying to shake the awful stench from the man still in my face. I thought about lighting it, since I was on my way out anyways, but I decided to respect the bartender, since he seemed like an alright gentleman. I turned my head to the side so I could breath normally, and prepared my exit speech.

"Well boys, you heard the man. I'll be outside waiting for you. Try not to keep me waiting too long. Its cold outside, and I didn't bring a jacket tonight. I was really waiting for my gay lover to come, so he could keep me warm. I was actually going to see if you all wanted to join us, but from the looks of things, I'm going to guess the answer is no. Too bad, I've always wanted to fuck a redneck."

"Shut the fuck up you little fagot!" the man in my face shouted.

"Hey! Outside!" The bartender yelled. I turned my back and headed towards the door. The men didn't follow me at first, instead, they debated what their next move would be. I was pretty sure what I said was enough, but I stopped before I got to the door, and decided to check on them.

"You boys are coming right?" I asked. They all started charging through the crowd, and I calmly made my way outside. I lit my cigarette, and took a puff. Oh sweet God in heaven it felt good to feel that smoke build in my lungs. I made my way towards their truck, and waited. It didn't take long before they joined me, and they didn't waste any time in throwing the first punch. The one with the hat hit me, and it knocked my cigarette out of my mouth. I grabbed my jaw and turned back to face him. He delivered another shot, this one sent me to the ground.

"Yea! Where are your little fagot nigger friends to help you now!?" he taunted.

"They're in that van over there," I replied, pointing to the van where my colleagues were deployed. Tyrone hit the lights, and I saw the look of fear and confusion in the man's eyes as I picked up my still lit cigarette and placed it back into my mouth. When Tyrone hit the gas and ran two of them down, he tried to run away. That's when Craig and Lita jumped out of the van, armed each with a bat, to chase the two remaining rednecks down. Tyrone got out too, and started to tie up the two on the ground. I slowly made my way to my feet and watched as Craig and Lita caught the runaways. I knew we had to be quick about leaving, and threw my final cigarette to the ground to help tie up the last of the assholes.

We threw them in the back seat of the van, and shut the doors. Leaving as quickly and quietly as we had arrived. The rednecks all bitched and moaned like little babies, until Lita put the tape over their mouths, muffling the noise a little bit.

"Alright, phase one was a success," Tyrone said, turning the radio back up.

"Yes, it was Tyrone. Can we stop up here at this gas station, I need cigarettes," I replied.

"Hey man, what the fuck? Should you be using my real name?" Tyrone asked.

"Oh, you know, I never thought of that. We should probably use fake names. I think they're unconscious right now, but when they wake up, it might be smart to use a persona. So everyone think of something you want to go by," I said.

"I want to be called Ramone," Tyrone answered.

"Why Ramone?" Lita asked.

"Why not?" Tyrone replied.

"Why the fuck even go under fake names? All we have to do is tell them we're using fake names, and they're so stupid they'll probably believe us," Craig explained.

"Alright fine, no fake names," I said as we pulled into the gas station. I got out of the van and approached the counter and requested my cigarettes. The clerk asked me for my ID, and I gave her that same ridiculous smile I always did as I handed it to her. Damn my baby face, I would give anything to look like a rugged bad ass. I got my cigarettes, and lit one as soon as I got outside. I inhaled the night and the nicotine, saying a silent prayer to a God I knew wasn't listening, that phase two went as smoothly as phase one did. I remembered my phone was still recording, and I reached into my pocket to turn it off. This was going to be one hell of a night to say the least.