Go Then if You Must

 

                “Do not go to war young man,” said the grizzled cowpoke. He was leaning back in a rickety bar room chair, balancing on the back legs, that creaked with each slow stretch of his legs.

                “What’s that,” asked the young man at the next table. He was surrounded by his young friends, toasting to the next war adventure, to secure the world from the unknown and unknowable.

                “Do not break bread with killers and anarchists, zealots, evil men or true believers” said the cowpoke.  The grizzled cowpoke took a sip from his straight whisky.

                “What are you talking about old man? What do you know? What gives you the right to tell me anything,” said the young man, edged forward by his stupidly grinning friends.

                “Do not take up arms against the innocent, the poor, the hungry,” said the old cowpoke. He tipped back in his squeaky chair, eyes closed.

                “Hey old man, I’ll do as my country asks of me and I’ll do it proudly, because I know that my leaders are the best leaders in the world and they are smart and wise and can do no wrong. I’d do anything for them,” shouted the young man as he raised his hand up for his friends to high-five him. They oohed and ah-ed at their friends bravery in the face of this judgmental old cowpoke.

                “Do not make men into Gods, and do not make ghosts of men,” said the old cowpoke.

                “Dude, what is your problem, you some kind of Communist or some kind a wise-ass,” asked the young man, “I’ll fucking kick your old fucking ass.”

                The old, grizzled cowpoke looked up and across the bar at the flaring rageful nostrils of the young man. The cowpoke pushed his cowboy hat from off his forehead, so it sat wistfully across his hairline.  Old neon lights flickering pink and blue, and pink and blue.

                “Go then, and be a killer of men. I will be there, at the end, to righteously judge,” said the grizzled old cowpoke. He rose from the rickety bar room chair. He walked heavily towards the door, ghostly chains dragging behind him.  Souls begging, screaming for forgiveness. He disappeared into white mist as he stepped through the doorway.

                The young man stood silent, his friends mouths aghast, a glass broke in the silence, before Fortunate Son began blaring from the ancient jukebox in the corner. The young men jumped with fright.

                “Another round,” asked the toothless, sweaty bartender as he leaned forward, reeking of Death and rot.