The Bartender Runs A Debt

The Bartender Runs A Debt

Look at him. Look at him as he places his coat on the floor. See his
face. See his eyes. Risen out of the chamber of his soul comes a single
glance of permeating obscurity. The cold stare of his eyes neutralises
even the hardest of spirits. Significant? is not the word to be used,
no, but considerable , yes, considerable? is his engulfing
presence.
The coat is a symbol of something. Maybe something to come, maybe
something that has gone before. It seems too trivial to be
insignificant. What could it mean? What could it possibly mean?
He speaks. He speaks of his past. His past seems vague. Even to him.
His retrospect seems like that of a higher being, a being of superior
nobility and mind. Even so, it is obvious he is haunted by the ghosts
of the past.
The sound of his voice acts as a barometer. The words barely register
as coherent units. His tone alone transcends the barriers of
traditional language. If he were to speak in another tongue, no
interpreter would be needed.
Though I never knew his name, he was The Catalan.

The Catalan was a man surrounded by mystery. Everyone knew of him, but
none knew him. They say that the day a man sees The Catalan was that
mans last day on Earth. An intriguing myth it was, but few would admit
to believing it. I know that I would not.
It was generally assumed that The Catalan was really the fabrication
of the local debt collectors, a piece of leverage to threaten their
less punctual clients with.
"Your lack of payment has not impressed The Catalan", they would say,
"he awaits your next action with baited breath".
They would always say this very slowly and softly, pausing momentarily
before mentioning the name of their most famous investor. If our
reasonable assumption was true, it was a very successful trick, for few
were the men who upon hearing those words would not sell their very
souls in order to settle their debt. I know that I would.

I would. But I could not. This is why he visits me, striking fear into
my heart, making me long for answers to insignificant trivial gestures
he employs. Which he employs most likely to strike fear into my
heart.
His actions seem like those of a ritual and one performed many times
before, I am sure. His stories about travels and inconsequential chance
meetings with strangers caused intrigue inside of me, but were
forgotten seconds later when he started the next story.

The myth of The Catalan stretched all the way down the fishing villages
along this west coast, and some would say versions of the story
stretched his catchment area well inside the primitive bandit villages
of the midlands.

What I did or did not know about this man who appeared before me was
not important, what mattered was what he did or did not do to me on
this very night.

A simple bartender by trade, I fell in to hard times during the past
winter when the men had to drain the waters elsewhere along the coast
in order to make their living (or else they would in turn have this
enigma standing before each and every one of them at some point or
other during this, the Season of the Collection). The Season Of The
Collection had never before worried me in my simple existence. That is
of course up until six months ago when under the pressure of the bank I
was forced to darken the doorstep of the money lenders who knew how to
collect their debt. I took their money and paid my debt, my business
survived but the men didn't come back on time. They still haven't come
back. And in their place is The Catalan.

There was no escaping my fate now, I don't know what he is going to do
but I know what the end is likely to be. Too frozen with fear and dread
to beg for mercy I wait listening to his stories until whenever it is
that The Catalan decides to kill me.