Prologue: The Ould Days

Stories of this nature always start off in some seedy bar that a right minded person wouldn't set foot into if they were payed to and this tale is no exception, save that in this case the bar was somewhat seedier than one might have otherwise come to expect.
Over the years a succession of somewhat tempestuous disagreements had left it that no two pieces of furniture quite matched, not that anyone noticed this fact anyway. The yellowed wallpaper might have been an attractive off-white or something similar at one stage but now it was stained various shades of brown ranging from Jack Daniels Old No. 7 to human blood O negative. The dark floor was similarly patterned, only more so.
The lighting in the Shuck Water bar was poor, some might say blessedly so since the advent of a no smoking policy had rendered the condition of the interior in plain sight, and had unfortunately left the regulars in plain sight too.
Back in the day, that is to say some time in the 1950's, this bar had been opened by a couple of entrepreneurial Irishmen as a haven for the hard working folks down at the dockyard. Now the docks were closed as the business moved up the coast to one of the larger cities or south to LA (if they could afford it) and the economy of Purity Bay spiraled into the toilet.
By the time of the depression in the late 80's the town was essentially in the control of two rival gangs, The Navvies and The Mammons, that isn't to say that there weren't enough smaller gangs and scumbags around to ensure that every night was an eventful one. The Navvies were the local Irish gang, all descendants of dockworkers and longtime natives of Purity Bay and all related in some way or another to the Irish gangs in Boston. They generally considered themselves fair and didn't usually involve themselves in the affairs of the normal citizenry of the town. They saw themselves more as a private army guarding the well being of a town they had helped build, and so collecting a little protection money from local businesses seemed only fair.
The Mammons on the other hand were an African American gang who had been smalltime in LA, and were never going to get anywhere in the city without drawing unwanted attention from the Bloods or the Crips, and so they sought out pastures anew. By 88 the were effectively involved in a Cold War with the Navvies of Purity Bay, though they never directly encroached on the Irish rackets and were careful enough to ensure that any Navvies they bunked off were not Irish blood.
In all this time the Shuck Water had changed hands so often that no one was quite sure how it ended up in the hands Hernando Garcia, a forty something Hispanic man with calm demeanor but a lightning temper. It wasn't that the big man would suddenly fly off the handle and beat seven shades of crap out of the first person to insult him, no this is were the calmness took control. Anyone insulting Garcia in the bar would spend the rest of the night drinking piss that had been laced with just enough alcohol to take the flavour away, and through the bar he knew enough people to have any other problems sorted.
Tonight the Shuck Water was quiet enough, a few local scumbags were in- one thief, one rapist and a guy who smelled like an arsonist (the lack of eyebrows was also a fairly good hint). A small group of Navvies sat at their usual spot at the rear of the bar, a bottle of whiskey from the 'Ould Country' providing the evening's refreshment as they laughed and guffawed about some nonsense or other that Garcia neither understood nor cared about. He didn't particularly like the Navvies, the pricks still acted like they owned the bar, hell they acted like they owned the town but that didn't bother him so much because it actually kept the crime rate lower than it rightfully should have been. The bar was a different matter though, Garcia had paid good money for the Shuck Water and he would be damned if a bunch of thugs were going to order him around like some kind of indentured servant.
At the other end of the bar, next to the large front window sat a group of Mammons and though they eyed the Navvies they maintained a respectful distance and kept to themselves. The Shuck was neutral territory for both gangs, any fighting would be done by the other idiots who frequented the place, and of that group there were plenty.
As the evening wore on the bar filled up with the usual eclectic bunch of lowlifes and dirtballs, all eager to throw back cheap booze and boast about whatever petty crimes had filled their day. Garcia would have hated to see them coming except that thanks to the Shuck's reputation these people were effectively his lifeblood, none of the regular citizenry would dare risk an evening with the worst of the worst in this godforsaken town.
An ancient looking Wurlitzer jukebox blared 'The Fields of Athenry' to which the Navvies were drunkingly roaring at the top of their lungs and hugging one another, spilling their drink all round the place in their camaraderie.
Garcia was polishing glasses like the typical barkeep cliché when 'he' first walked in, he wore a long coat of brown leather with the hood pulled up over his head leaving his face shrouded in darkness. The coat was closed by a series of straps but beneath it Garcia could make out dirty blue jeans and brown boots as the man walked towards the bar. Over the years there had been many dangerous men through the Shuck Water and the Spaniard got the feeling that here was another.
"Whiskey," he said with a voice as gravelly as quarry, "leave the bottle."
The Mammons had watched the man enter, and had allowed a few laughs amongst themselves at his ridiculous attire, did this guy think that he was a cowboy or something?
The largest of the group, a particularly nasty piece of work whom Garcia knew to be called 'Porkchop' (because he liked to Pork women and Chop his enemies, the name was far from an insult) called over to the stranger, "Hey man, there a rodeo in town or something."
This resulted in a burst of laughter from his table and from a few customers who happened to be regular enough to know that if you were this close to Porkchop it was best to laugh at his jokes lest you find yourself either getting porked or chopped. The tall man at the bar however failed even to acknowledge his presence, he emptied the glass of whiskey down his throat and proceeded to pour himself another.
"Hey, I'm talking to you, man!"
A couple of Navvies turned to see what the commotion was at the front of the bar but soon lost interest again when they saw that one of the Mammons was just picking on some stranger, that kind of thing happened all the time in the Shuck. It was a nice regular bar that was to be enjoyed exclusively by the regulars, they didn't take kindly to strangers in town.
Porkchop unfolded from his chair and patted one of the other Mammons on the shoulder, they approached the bar and stood on either side of the hooded stranger, who downed his second whiskey and poured another. He was seemingly oblivious to the two huge men who now flanked him, another whiskey disappeared into the hood.
"So what you think you're doin' here, punk?" Porkchop nudged the stranger, "Don't you know that this is a private members bar for the citizens of Purity Bay."
The stranger silently lifted the whiskey bottle and emptied another generous measure into the glass.
"What are you stupid or something?"
Porkchop's companion hit the stranger an open palm slap across the head, "Hey, Pork, maybe he's like one of them deaf and dumb types, you know. Can't hear shit, can't apologize for intruding."
The stranger raised his head slightly but did not turn, "Nigger, if you touch me again I will kill you."
"What the fuck did you say, man?" Porkchop grabbed the man's arm and squeezed tight, "I know I didn't just hear you bring some racial shit into this conversation!"
Garcia took a step back, that poor sap was as good as dead now, "Guys, take this outside, that shit takes forever to clean up."
"Yeah, lets go outside for a nice talk."
Porkchop pulled the stranger's hood back, the man underneath couldn't have been any older than thirty and there wasn't so much as a scar on his face, he had ruffled black hair and a tanned complexion. Even now he failed to truly acknowledge the presence of what was now five Mammon gang members.
"Perhaps you did not hear me the first time," the stranger spoke, his voice seemed unfitting for his features, "piss off before I give you a real reason to leave."
Porkchop grabbed the man and tried to pull him from the bar, but the stranger did not budge, he barely moved at all. With a movement like a snake the man's right arm shot out and he plunged his fingers into the eye sockets of Porkchop's companion, the man fell screaming to the ground as the others stood initially in shock, then recovering their composure they drew their guns.
The stranger turned and allowed his coat to fall open, he looked from one weapon aimed at him to the next before finally meeting eyes with the enormous Porkchop, who felt a tremble beginning first in his pistol hand and soon spreading to his legs.
"Oh. Fuck. Me!"