The American Inn

Allen knew what he was about to do was going to get him in trouble, but he didn't care. Not now, not after that hot head bartender shut him off for the night. Who the fuck did Gary think he was? He was a jerk in high school and he was a jerk now. He wasn't anybody. Just a lowly bartender in the local watering hole, in the next town over from where he grew up. Gary with his "I don't like your attitude, son." and "no more drinks for you tonight, cowboy" and his smirk as he checked to make sure the waitresses heard him exert his power. Sure Gary had a job and Allen didn't. Gary probably had a girl and Allen didn't. But Allen had the money to pay his bar tab and he had every right to buy himself a beer now and then.

Allen was all worked up now, standing in the parking lot with the baseball bat he had retrieved from the back of his pickup. Maybe Gary would remember that Allen was a star in high school and stop treating him like a good for nothing.

He finished his cigarette and stumped on the butt. And that's when he got the idea. If he couldn't have a drink then no one was going to and then Gary would have to close up the bar and he'd lose some tip money and his manager would be pissed off. That's what Allen's next big idea was. Shut it down. He went back to the pickup and traded the baseball bat for his electrician's gloves, a flashlight and some wire cutters and stole around to the back of the house that was the American Inn. He had worked on the renovation and he knew where to find the breaker box and the wires that led into it. He tried the basement door and for once something went his way. It was unlocked. He went into the dark room and switched on his light. He made his way quickly to the box. After flipping the breakers and shutting down the electricity, he went to the side of the box and cut one of the main wires. Even if they flipped the breakers on, there were be no juice. He let out a self satisfied giggle and casually made his way back to his pick up truck. He pulled out of the lot, nice and quiet, so as to not draw attention to himself.

Allen woke up the next morning with a hell of a hangover. After some pain reliever and strong coffee he checked his phone. 15 messages and multiple texts. What the hell could have happened last night?

First text: Holy Shit Man, the American is on Fire! Are you there tonight?
Second Text: Hey Man, I know you said you would be there.
Third Text: Allen, man, pick up the phone.

They went on just like that. The voicemails were similar. The American Inn was his hangout and all his friends knew it. He sent out a mass text. He had been asked to leave and he had done just that.

He put on the local radio station. They were talking about the fire. Electrical fire, started in the basement, no injuries, but the owner has lost everything. The building went up and with it all the alcohol he'd been stockpiling for Nascar season. They suspected foul play but the fire investigator hadn't been able to get inside yet.

Allen knew what he was about to do next was going to get him in trouble. But for some reason, he did it anyway. He called Gary, the old son a bitch, to make sure he was okay.