Jordan

THE SWINE. Jordan Sommerville stared at the hand-painted sign po-sitioned crookedly over the ramshackle building. Visible from the roadway, the sign boasted some of the worst pen-manship he'd ever seen. The bright red letters seemed to leap right out at him. He cursed as another icy trickle of rain slid down the back of his neck. He could hear the others behind him, murmuring in subdued awe as they took in the sights and sounds of the bar. It was late, it was dark, and for Septem-ber, it was unseasonably cool. Surely there didn't exist a more idiotic way to spend a Friday night. The idea of trying to convince a bar owner to institute a drink limit, especially a bar owner who had thus far al-lowed quite a few men to overimbibe, seemed futile. Jor-dan started forward, anxious to get it over with. Somehow he'd become the designated leader of the five-man troop, a dubious honor he'd regretfully accepted. The men had been organized by Zenny, a retired farmer who was best described as cantankerous--on his good days. Then there was Walt and Newton, who claimed to be semi-retired from their small-town shops, though they still spent every day there. And Howard and Jesse, the town gossips who volunteered for every project, just to make sure they got to stick their noses into anything that was going on. Jordan stopped at the neon-lighted doorway to the seedy saloon and turned to face the men. A strobing beer sign in the front window illuminated their rapt faces. Jor-dan had to shout to be heard over the loud music and laughter blaring from inside the establishment. "Now remember," he said, and though he used his cus-tomary calm tone, he infused enough command to hold all their attention, "we're going to talk. That's all. There'll be no accusations, no threats and absolutely, under no circum-stances, will there be any violence. Understood?" Five heads bobbed in agreement even as they looked anxiously beyond Jordan to the rambunctious partying in-side. Jordan sighed. Buckhorn County was dry, which meant anyone who drank had the good sense to stay indoors and keep it pri-vate. There'd been too many accidents on the lake, mostly from vacationers who thought water sports and alcohol went hand in hand, for the citizens to want it any other way. But this new bar, a renovated old barn, had opened just over the county line, so the same restriction didn't apply. Lately, some of its customers had tried joyriding through Buckhorn in the dead of the night, hitting fences, tearing up cornfields, terrorizing the farm animals, and generally making minor mayhem. No one had been seriously in-jured, yet, but in the face of such moronic amusements, it was only a matter of time. So the good citizens of Buckhorn had rallied together and, at the suggestion of the Town Advisory Board, decided to try talking to the owner of the bar. They hoped he would be reasonable and agree to restrict drinks to the rowdier customers, or perhaps institute a drink limit for those that leaned toward nefarious tendencies and overindulgence. Jordan already knew what a waste of time that would be. He had his own very personal reasons for loathing drunks. He would have gently refused to take part in the futile endeavor tonight, except that he and his brothers were considered leading citizens of Buckhorn, and right now, due to a nasty flu that had swept through the town, Jordan was the only brother available to lead. With a sigh, he walked through the scarred wooden doors and stepped inside. The smoke immediately made his lungs hurt. Mixed with the smells of sweat and the sick-ening sweet odor of liquor, it was enough to cause the strongest stomach to lurch. The dank, dark night worked as a seal, enclosing the bar in a sultry cocoon. The walls were covered with dull gray paint. Long fluorescent lights hung down from the ex-posed ceiling beams, adding a dim illumination to an oth-erwise gloomFoster, Lori is the author of 'Jordan ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373198610 and ISBN 0373198612.