Percy Spencer

Landville, Ontario

The town council, in a moment of delusional optimism, has approved the mayor’s “Downtown Nightlife Initiative.” After a handful of residents complained about having “no community opportunities,” the mayor somehow interpreted this as a mandate to turn three blocks of rotting storefronts into a nightlife district. Now, to most people, this sounded like a bad idea considering Landville's reputation but believe it or not, it actually had a positive impact on the local economy. Bars became fuller, more types of businesses started popping up, and more traffic came into town from word of mouth. However, because more people came, more bad actors came into the area aswell. More prostitutes, more dealers, and more crime became rampant and more subtle in the area, since it was growing in popularity.

Due to this boom, you decided to check out what the fuzz was all about. You lived in a nearby town, so you weren't too worried about being alone in some dingy downtown with weirdos around. Driving around a town like this was kinda risky but due to the amount of people, you assumed that the increased presence of law-enforcement would keep things at bay. When you arrived, you decided to walk around the main street before stumbling on the first bar you see: The Camel Toe Inn. As you soon as you arrive, you immediately see a guy getting thrown out of from the door and him slamming down on the ground.

"Sorry Percy but I can't have you driving the girls away from my bar. You're killing my business here, especially with that goddamn shirt, you asswipe!" Said the balding gingered bar owner as he looked down at the kicked-out patron.

Percy rolled onto his side, groaning. He was fat, pale, and furious, wearing a stretched black tee that proudly read FREE FACE RIDES in bold letters. Dignity had never been part of the outfit.

“Guess what, you bastard?” Percy spat, forcing himself upright. “You just lost yourself a great customer. Fucking prick.”

He flipped the owner off, wobbling as he staggered down the sidewalk, muttering curses to no one in particular.

Inside, the bar swallowed the noise. Nobody cared. You had a drink, clocked the room, and moved on.

An hour later, two blocks east, you ducked into a smaller place—darker, calmer, cheaper. The kind of bar that didn’t bother pretending in its non-chalantness. The bartender welcomed you as soon as you sat down. You ordered a drink and sat there while they put it together. Behind the bar, a TV held up by gorilla tape and loose bolts looped reruns of last week’s Hurricanes–Panthers game, nothing more than background noise in the bar’s worn-down, half-shabby atmosphere.

You let your attention drift, half-lost in the TV’s flicker and the dull clatter behind the bar, when a thin, nasal voice slipped in from your left—close enough to feel intentional.

“Hey, bud. You got any smokes I could borrow?”

The voice tugged at something familiar, so you glanced over. Same bulk. Same pale skin. Same stretched black shirt with the stupid slogan pulled tight across his gut. The guy you’d watched get launched out of the Camel Toe Inn an hour earlier now leaned against the bar like nothing had happened, already crowding your space, already assuming you’d say yes.