The Bomb: A Jason Oler story. Read online

The Bomb: A Jason Oler Story

  David Willoughby

  Copyright 2011 David Willoughby

  Our story begins in a bar. Most stories might bother to tell you that this was no ordinary bar. That it was special in some way. Either the patrons or the proprietors where some special person that made the bar important, unfortunately this bar was only prominent because it happened to be the only one of two bars in the town that had live music tonight. As this was a small town that meant you could easily find most of the local bands in one place for this Friday night. That is why this bar has significance for us. There is a man who plays in this bar every Friday night with every band. He strums a great big five string bass guitar and provides what I hear are excellent bass lines. I wouldn’t know, as his musical talents are of little concern to us. This man who stands on stage wearing a worn mid-thigh length leather jacket and well-traveled jeans with vast pockets, plucking those thick and melodic rhythms has a much more colorful past than one might first be lead to believe. A man of his talents might be confused for a life time artisan in these parts where music schools were few and far between. For those who knew of him they might know him for his musical talent, or perhaps his unique talents with a brush and acrylics, perhaps they only know him by his quick wit and sharp tongue. The men of this town however, who have stayed for any length of time, would know that he is not just a sensitive artist, as the phrase is known.

  The bar was filled with a dim light from several electric bulbs that worked only when the generator out back deemed it a necessary task. This was often, however the frequenters of the bar all knew exactly where the emergency candles were and did not even flinch when the lights winked out of existence. Tonight however the bulbs glowed strong. The dirty earthen tones of the bar mimicked the atmosphere of the town rather well. It was a working town. Nothing existed in the town that someone there hadn’t built, grown, designed, or dragged there. The bar was not crowded, which is to our advantage as it provides a clear view of the patrons. Notably the four of interest to us. They are not themselves very interesting people in appearance; the only thing that makes them interesting is their interest in our bass player. You see these particular patrons are very aware of the bass players past life. His dark deeds. His triumphs. His skills. They are interesting because they are interested in what we are interested in. A mutual interest, if you will.

  The man who sits at the bar in a black business suit has a suitcase gripped firmly in hand. Not a death-grip, but I certainly do not envy the man who would try to take it from him. He appears to be bulky and uncomfortable; a practiced eye would assume body armor. Not to unusual an occurrence amongst travelers in these parts. The man who sat down the bar from him was in fact not a man at all but a dwarf. His scruffy beard and stout demeanor give him away. He hasn’t bothered to hide his body armor under plain clothes and instead looks more like a soldier than a wondering business man. He does not draw much attention as he is not the only dwarf in the bar, much less the only one in armor. The other two people of note are both human and dressed similarly to the dwarf. They both have button down thrown over their armor though and it gives them a relaxed look. They are both sharing a booth. If one had bothered to notice that the four had arrived together one might assume the dwarf and the armored humans worked for the man in the business suit. This was not entirely untrue. They did work for him in a fashion but to believe them mere mercenaries would be a foolish mistake.

  Let us follow the bass player more closely. You should know him as Jason. His song sounds as if it is about to end but I assure you my friend his tale is far from over.