Birth of a Legend?

Michael Aimes cursed his decision to ride his bicycle to work every day, as he glanced at the sky. He then glanced down to one of his prized possessions, a master diving watch from Fossil; it was 1630, and his usual shift, the night shift started in an hour. However, tonight did not promise the clear crisp winter sky that allowed him to look up at the stars and lose himself. Instead of the shivering but anxious customers that were happily ready to drink, he was going to get sullen, wet and depressed assholes who alternately wanted to whine and rant. His reward for making those poor bastards happy would be complaints about the booze and the food with no tips.

The dark, heavy cumulonimbus clouds hung ominously like rain was going to start pouring the minute he left the gym. It smelled like ozone and rain, a nice addition to the already frigid and windy day. Michael sighed, and was thankful that his hair was short. It wouldn't stay frozen that long after he got to O'Malley's. And while being so lanky made it difficult to find good cold weather clothes, Mike was proud of his status as the human furnace. Today, that pride was going to bite him in the ass as he half froze to death on the fifteen mile bike ride over.

He sighed, and shivered while the bike lock clicked closed around the frame. The beat up mountain bike was light and reliable; the most important thing was that it was fast, and the tires could grip the snow, and even wasn't that bad on ice. Mike looked down at the single remaining aspect of his childhood, a heavy, waterproof backpack, and slide it on. Unlike his college days, there weren't any textbooks left in it, just his work clothes, and a few miscellaneous items.

His musings were cut short by clouds picking the perfect counterpoint to happy moments. Damn, the rain is cold. Mike hopped on the bike before he started shivering too much to get moving. First one foot went down, and then the other. The humming of wheels, the clicking of the gears, and even the cold bite of the wind was bliss. Even if the rain hammered down, as long as Mike moved fast enough, it was like he could find it, the reason he was born for. In simple speed, he felt like he could catch a dream, become a dream. Even the burning cold, the numbing fact couldn't stop the sheer freedom of hauling ass.

Mike laughed hard at the cars stuck in traffic, keeping pace with some of the most powerful machinery on the earth with just his muscles. He stayed right beside a red Subaru Forrester, smiling at the little boy in the back seat. Five years old with blonde hair, and bright green eyes waving at me. It was nostalgic to think that he once was that kid, happy and full of promise. The smile faded slightly as he diverged from the Corona and took a short cut through the 'park.' Suddenly, the cold seemed to get through his core. Still, the thrill of speed had not been lost as he the little puffs of steam from his breathing left him by.

The other reason he took this way was to see a girl painting. Susanna was a cute redhead still in school as an art student. Her dream of being a professional artist still burned bright, and for a good reason. She deserved to succeed, she worked to hard to fail. The evolution of a painting was a cool experience, something that he enjoyed. The bike rattled over the icy wooden bridge at break neck speed, going by the picturesque pond Susanna was currently painting, except she wasn't there.

It was just that kind of day going, even the rain was a half-assed drizzle. A quick right turn sprayed snow everywhere in a most satisfying way. Even if it was just going to be small pleasures, Mike was going to enjoy his time before work, and all the bitching he hated. The only hope going for him was that it was a Saturday, and that it could be quite busy, too busy to listen Charles whine about his car, or Derek and his ex-wife fighting over their little girl.

O'Malley's crept into view, a big building that had an old style British pub, with dark wood paneling and a large oak door. It had Celtic knots engraved in the square panels. The weirdest thing was a perpetual of warm bread and mulled spices that always filled the entrance. He darted around the back to the loading dock. A quick bite and a tug pulled a light glove off a shaking hand. He chattered curses while he fumbled fitting the key into the lock and turning it.

He opened the door with a little difficulty and ran the bike in. There was a space in the stockroom between the wall and the crates of Coor's Lite had created a few months back, and he hurriedly pushed the damn thing in the space. No one was going to steal the bike here, not when they knew about the twin tempers of Gary and his unofficial bouncer Dave. In this instance, they might get a chance before he bathed in that bastard's hot blood.

He stumbled up the stairs as fast as possible, and peeled off the water resistant jacket. The kitchen was had a small room housing a washing machine and dryer for the dish towels and aprons.

“Hey, Mike, you're early again.”
“Ju-Just a se-sec, Boss.”
“James! Make something hot for Mike! The idiot biked over here again.”

Gary O'Malley sighed audibly at the folly of one of his best bartenders. The quiet rumble of the dryer started and Mike emerged with his hands under his arm pits, still shivering slightly. Mike jauntily wore a black fedora with an eagle feather, formal black sports jacket, a black bow tie, a button down white shirt, black slacks, and even black formal shoes. One of the reasons he was so good at his job was being able to put on a show, even during a rush. It was easier to do something flashy than have to interact with people constantly.

“You're gonna kill yourself one day.”
“No Irish accent, boss?”
“Work hasn't started for you yet, has it smart ass? Wanna be stockroom boy again?”
“Ya dinnae noo what ya ask me ta do.”

Gary slapped the shivering kid over the head lightly.
“Go sit by the stove until you become useful again. You have ten minutes before game time.”

Mike hung his head low and shrugged still sarcastic, even when silent. Still shivering, he leaned up against the roasting oven. It was nice and hot. While O'Malley's was an old style pub, he also managed to maintain a fairly nice food selection. Considering his boss was a former five star executive chef, Gary was still slumming it a bit. Some water started dripping down his head as his hair defrosted. The fedora came off and was idly twirled in his hands. It felt good to warm up again. A smaller Asian man with a one of the smaller 'pint' glasses came up with some steaming tea of some kind. It smelled wonderful.

“James your are a god among men.” The reserved man cracked a smile for a bit while Mike tasted the beverage. The bartender had fantastic taste distinction, and it was always a game to see if he could figure out what was in Master Chung's five kinds of tea.

“Hmm, the original blend with a twist. I taste some faint orange and vanilla. The rest is still unidentifiable, but delicious.” Mike bowed his head again in mock shame, and James showed some teeth in the smile before inclining his head slightly. The man retreated gracefully and went back to work. Between Gary's classic Irish bar food, french training and James Chung's Chinese cuisine, the two sou chefs, Arnold and Jordan, were always confused. But, apparently those who bought the only slightly overpriced bar food loved the stuff.

The feeling of warm tea warming him from the inside out was simply exquisite. He let out a little sigh of happiness, isolated in his own little bubble of simple contentment while the world revolved around his little bubble. Mike twitched his fingers, feeling the natural dexterity return. He did a few simple hat rolls along the brim with his ring and forefinger, inverting the side occasionally with his thumb. Slowly, an empty stomach began to protest.

Mike stole through the kitchen in sight of absolutely everyone, but no one paid attention. He snagged an order of fish and chips without anyone noticing and crept back to his spot. Gary deserved some head scratching; a little humbling was good for the older, slightly pudgy chef. Arnold caught a glance, and Mike dropped the meal below eye level. Arnie glared suspiciously for a few seconds and then went back to cooking, muttering inaudibly to himself. His position next to the oh so warm roasting oven. The fish and chips were devoured quickly, but not fast enough as Gary was there to catch him.

“So you stole the damn thing. How am I not surprised.”

Mike tried an innocent look that would have fooled absolutely no one, and began to try and weasel out of it. “What do you mean? I stole nothing, oh and look at the time! I gotta go.”

“Uh huh. Nice try.” Mike slid away from the oven while shoving the last of the fries into his mouth. He mumbled over the fries, “I have no idea what you are talking about.” He quickly launched out a hand to snag the hat before Gary realized it was there. The old man anticipated the move, and caught it mid-flight. He smiled evilly.

“I will make you a bet. If you don't make over a two hundred dollars, I get your tips and your pay for today.”

The free hand of the chef's meaty callused paws shook the trapped hand. “I am so glad you agree.”

Mike offered a sickly smile at being trapped again by the clever old bastard. It was part of their agreement that Mike had foolishly made earlier that year for a meal and the chance to snag free food. If he decided to gamble with the food and got caught, the old con man got to make a bet with his favorite bartender, i.e. newest punter. Gary let go, and started whistling happily. It would have been quite a jaunty tune if it wasn't so badly off-key. The wince grew worse as he started muttering to himself.

“I swear, that old man isn't a chef, he is fucking criminal mastermind.”

Mike nervously combed his hair with his fingers a few times before flipping on his hat. If they were busy, if it was a good night, two hundred in tips on a weekend night wasn't unheard of. In this weather, “it's probably fucking impossible,” he continued muttering to himself as he left the smaller domain of the kitchen to head upstairs to the large two story pub.

A fake smile was planted on his face as he quickly glanced over the half empty tables and booths, only two of the pool tables were being used, and the dart boards were vacant. A few people clustered around the scattered hanging high def flat screen televisions. For once, Mike wished he worked downstairs, in the restraint bar with Jake Blackhall Jr. That man was an encyclopedia of liquor and drink knowledge. He also made consistently around 200 dollars in tips by piggybacking of the waitresses.

He glanced over at what he thought was the centerpiece of the pub, the master bar. It had a small service elevator behind the front to the stockroom, large enough to manhandle kegs in and out, if not comfortably. The stock of booze was incredible, from the best top shelf to the more commonly drunk and mixed hard liquor stored under the bar or the recessed openings for the kegs. Even better for tonight, there was a small crowd around the master bar. His protege Marcello was probably doing some tricks right now. The thought of showing him a few new easily done bottle tricks put a little pep in his step.

This happiness faded quickly at the sight of Sabrina between a few heads. The blonde was pretty, but a pain in the ass. She always wanted to turn things into a competition, and while he would never admit it to her face, she did have some classic tricks down. He sighed loudly as he passed around the back.

“Why isn't Marcelo here, honey?” Mike's voice was cloyingly sweet, a tone guaranteed to annoy her. She responded in the same kind of tone, but shrilly, sending spikes of pain through his ears and then down his spine.

“I needed the shift, dear.”

“I want a turkey special!”
"Blue moon!"

Mike snatched a whiskey bottle, and spun it over his right forearm while snatching of a classic highball glass with the other. The whiskey bottle slid into his hand while the left hand slid three cubes of ice in it. Sabrina smirked slightly and took a frosted pint glass.

“That doesn't tell me why he isn't working with me today.” She grunted noncommittally and started pouring from the tap. Mike absently poured a double shot of Famous Grouse into the glass. His hands continued to work slicing a lime and an orange wedge. The lime wedge was expertly squeeze to let out just a little spray and just enough juice, and garnished with orange wedge. He paused for a moment.

“Got a tab?”