KillShot
It was past eleven when the bulk of the crowd from the bowling tournament finally got back to the hotel. There had been others that had arrived earlier, a slow trickle, mostly, of sulking husbands following behind their unamused wives; the rest had, it seemed, stuck it out to the bitter end. The crowd eddied for a while in the lobby, talking in subdued murmurs, until the majority dispersed into the elevators or up the stairs, back to their respective rooms. A certain minority, however – six men, each of them alone – went towards the hotel bar, instead. Five of them took seats at the counter: an accountant from Milwaukee, a tax preparer from Poughkeepsie, an engineering student from Chillicothe, a network administrator from Phoenix, and a marketing consultant from Gaithersburg. The engineering student and the marketing consultant ordered Kentucky bourbons. The others ordered domestic beers. The sixth, an unemployed man from Scranton, ordered a scotch and took it to a booth in the far corner. The engineering student attempted to knock his drink back in a gulp, choked, coughed violently, spattered alcohol across the bar and himself, croaked out an apology, quickly hurried out. The bartender grimaced, grabbed a rag, and started to wipe the spot down. The others barely seemed to notice. They sat and drank in silence. The TV over the bar was showing an old hockey game at low volume.