The smell of spilled whiskey was the first and only thing to greet me as I pulled open the door to the Alibi. A textbook dive, the splintered tables of the bar were full, but nobody looked toward me as I tapped the bottom of my boots in the entryway.

The lack of turned heads was a point of pride in the Alibi. It felt private no matter how busy it was. When you were inside the Alibi, your business was your business, and if someone overheard your conversation, no they didn't.

The barkeep, a hammerhead of a woman named Sasha, clocked me in the doorway but didn't offer a nod. In fact, she didn't offer me anything; instead, Sasha stared at me with careful disinterest for a moment before returning to the drink she was pouring.

Maybe it was better that people were ignoring me here. I doubted I would have been good attention.

The bar top of the Alibi was scratched from a million slid glasses and a thousand knives. Years ago, they attempted to re-lacquer the thing, but the regulars said it'd killed the charm. Within a week, it was back to a scratched wooden mess threatening to stab any hand that rested on it.

I sat down at the bar, pulling out one of the few unused stools. As I sat down a behemoth of a man to my right pulled his chair away from me, and closer to the ear of the people he was whispering to.

Sasha ignored me for a moment, but then I held up two fingers to order a drink and made it clear that I was looking for her. I watched her sigh and turn her attention to another customer.

My phone buzzed in my pocket again. It had been ringing off the hook all evening, not that it had a hook; it was a cell phone.

I would answer it eventually.

Sasha finished pouring the neat whiskey for the woman to my right and finally, out of plausible deniability, turned to me. "Detective," she opened, somehow making the title sound like a curse.

"Evening Sasha," I said with a nod, ignoring the tone she'd used, "how's Rod?"

"S'fine," she answered, "what are you drinking?"

I considered it for a moment, "A Mojito." The second I said it Sasha glared at me. Asking her to mash mint was my way of keeping her around. That and a mojito completely clashed with the atmosphere.

Then again, so did I.

"Coming right up," Sasha hissed before grabbing a glass from the bottom of the bar. She knew how it worked; she would start working on the drink, and then when she was trapped in front of me-

"Sasha, a question."

She grunted, which roughly translated to 'there it is.'

"Okay," I cut off our usual song and dance, "a favour then."

That got her to slow down the process of fake cleaning the glass.

"I need you to tell me the truth. Just this once."

Sasha snorted at that and then chuckled to herself. Once she'd finished,she looked up at me, waiting for a smile or anything to show that I was joking.

The core rule of the Alibi and the nexus of its success was that they would always offer an Alibi for you, no matter how many people came knocking on your door. As a detective I was the exact opposite of what Sasha wanted in here. She wanted people to feel safe when they were turning over a new leaf.

It was rough to admit, but these Ex-cons needed a haven away from officers with an axe to grind.

"Look, I'm not here on force business today," I explained. She didn't flinch, "I have two questions about a girl, and then I'll shut up and drink.

Sasha grabbed the white rum from the wall behind the bar but didn't comment.

"Hell, I'll leave a big tip too," I leaned it, "it's just two questions."

Sasha paused, then poured rum into the measuring cup. "You're desperate," she mused after a moment.

I didn't say anything. I just nodded.

Sasha stopped what she was doing and put the half-finished drink down in front of me. There were still several steps between me and mojito. "What'd you get yourself into?" she asked.

"Not me," I corrected; that finally got Sasha to raise her eyebrows and look at me with anything but disdain. "I'm looking for a girl."

"Oh yeah, saw her last week," Sasha answered before I'd explained any part of the question. She went to grab the half-finished drink, and I got my hand in the way.

"Sasha. She's going to get herself hurt."

"Well, it ain't gonna be here so-"

"I know she was here. I just need to know where she was going, Sasha," I explained, "just this-" I stopped, "I'll stop coming here. You'll never get another call from me about a case."

Sasha cocked her head slightly, and her tight bun flopped a moment later.

"Sasha. Please."

Sasha put her hands on her hips and then turned to the back of the bar to find the beer she'd been likely nursing for the better part of the last two hours. Once she'd taken a proper gulp of it, she crouched in front of me. She'd scanned my face enough times that I was sure she wouldn't find anything new.

"Just one question," I negotiated.

Sasha took a deep breath. "Fine. Shoot."

"You saw an Asian girl here. Her name was Carly, would have been with two other girls, all three with black hair."

"Yeah. There's your question."

"That was a statement," I corrected, trying to keep the current dynamic instead of slipping into the old one. "The question is, did they say where they were going?"

Sasha took another sip of her drink. "You said this ain't for work?"

I nodded.

"Why'd'ya care so much."

It was my turn to sigh. I reached and grabbed the half-finished drink, taking a sip of the odd mix of white rum and soda water. "She's my sister."

Sasha frowned.

"And she's in bad, and I don't know how to help her so-" I laid my land on the counter. "Came to someone I could trust."

Sasha stood up, looked both ways and then took a deep breath, "You're killing me, detective."

"I know."

"They were talking about Wharburtons," she answered as she leaned in to ensure that nobody heard her breaking the one rule of Alibi. "Don't know what about, but they're bad news."

I tossed a twenty on the table and stood up. A breath later, I tossed a second one on top of it. There was silence for a moment between us, and it felt like the bar had quieted down too.

"Fuck you and your stupid rules," I hissed overly loud, ensuring that the surrounding patrons heard me.

"Get fucked, Detective," she shouted back. She pointed to the door, but I was leaving anyway.

I couldn't risk turning around to say it, but I hoped she understood that I mouthed 'thank you' as I left.

/r/Jacksonwrites all that jazz

ALIBI'S AFTERTHOUGHT

The Alibi served many functions, and its rules were simple.

Firstly, if you planned to use the Alibi for its implied name, you had to shoot Alissa a text first. Alissa kept a ripped copy of everyone's credit cards in a secure drawer behind her desk. She would use your card to buy a beer, and keep the receipt. She would keep the beer for herself or her staff, of course, but for the cost of one pint on tap, you had yourself a get-out-of-jail-free card. A good deal, by anyone's standards.

The second function was jobs. Although tensions were high in Caldew, not every gang had every skill they needed at all times. Some of the criminals were more freelance. For the right price, you could get a top-tier hacker, or a surgeon to patch up one of your thugs who couldn't be seen at the hospital. You could hire muscle, of course, but that was easy. There were more rare and in-demand skills than that.

The third function was recruitment. Alissa was not personally involved, but when young men and women came of age and had no better prospects, there was a room in the back where a gang leader could grab their latest bruiser, sneaker, or spy.

Of course the lawmakers knew almost all of this, but Alissa hadn't made it to her position by being careless or thick-skulled. She had blackmail and bribes for every possible problem prepared at all times.

There was only one problem Alissa hadn't thought would come knocking on her door: freakin' superheroes.

Superheroes weren't a thing. No one dressed up in spandex to enact vigilante violence. Superpowers weren't a thing, either! Yet here they were, a group of probably fifteen guys, barging into Alissa's Alibi and wrecking the place.

For a split second, the security seemed unsure what to do. When they jumped up and started putting the leotard-wearing losers on their rears, most of the regulars had already begun their counterattack.

Alissa herself got involved, not needing or even wanting to use anything other than her fists. Their outright audacity had her seeing red.

It took less than fifteen minutes before the fight ended, just as abruptly as it had begun. All of the wanna-be watchmen, on an unseen signal, turned around and ran. All except for the one Alissa held in a suffocating rear naked chokehold while her favorite bartender pelted him with the best featherweight punches she could.

Disturbing the Alibi was, under normal circumstances, grounds for a very immediate vacation from the land of the living. However, for the first time in the six years since Ali had founded the bar, she brought someone into the back room that had been kept empty, save for a few knives, lengths of steel rope, and hammers. Its purpose was self-evident.

It took about twenty more minutes to get her answers, with some enthusiastic help. Ali then picked up her phone to start a group call with the two biggest gang leaders in Caldew. She stepped out into the cool, slightly drizzly night to collect her thoughts while the call connected.

"What's good?" One of the voices responded.

"Ali. Must be important for you to call both of us at once."

"I need both of you to take this seriously. I had a breakin at the Alibi."

"That is goddamn serious. No way it was any of my boys, right?" The first man responded.

"No, neither of your crews were involved. This was...well, it was a group of fifteen guys. Very sturdy guys. We gave them a thrashing, broke tables over them, they did not shed a drop of blood, and not one of them got knocked out either."

"Okay. Could be simple luck." The second voice responded, already bored of the call.

"No. I kept one of 'em. Got him to tell me a very interesting story. Someone out there is inventing superheroes. They've apparently synthesized a drug that can cause advantageous mutations."

The second voice scoffed. "If there was a drug lab working on human enhancement, I'd have bought it already."

"They're motivated against crime. This round they were all tough. Apparently with each fight they gather more data, and the men can receive another dose. Next round is more powerful, and when they get back from the second fight, they can get a third dose, which is even more powerful, and so on."

"So, what, superman? Green lantern? What kind of mutations are they supposed to get?" The first one asked.

"I don't know, because my...um. Newfound friend, he didn't know either."

"And who were the volunteers?"

"Memory wipe. Not sure, but if you want to lend me a contact in the police to run their faces against missing or wanted posters, I'll share everything I learn."

"Superheroes. Pff. Guess it was only a matter of time before reality became stranger than fiction." The second voice replied.

"Uh, yeah, speaking of round two..." The first gang leader said, as his voice faded away from the phone. "Someone made of fire is walking right into my Grave!"

I'll continue on my sub :) r/nystorm_writes

SCP-9999: The Alibi:

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures:

Knowledge of SCP-9999 is to strictly limited to members of the 05 council. So long as information pertaining to SCP-9999 is contained, no further containment procedures are required.

The property containing SCP-9999, a bar in Midwey Kentucky, has been acquired by a Foundation front company and filled entirely with cement.

No person has set foot in SCP-9999 since June ██, 1971. Any claims to the contrary are to false.

[05 clearance required]

[clearance key: ████████ ]

[key accepted]

[welcome, 05-7]

Special Containment Procedures:

False Special Containment Procedures are to be created and freely visible to all members of the Foundation. These procedures are to state that a full description of the anomaly is limited to the 05 council, and that no person has entered the anomaly since its containment date.

In truth, knowledge of SCP-9999 is not contained. The above procedures are intended to prevent Foundation staff or groups of interest from using SCP-9999's memetic effects during interrogation.

Foundation webcrawlers are to scan for potential signs of SCP-9999. These webcrawlers are to be personally managed by 05-7. All interrogation logs - both outside and within the Foundation - are to be scanned for evidence of SCP-9999.

Description:

SCP-9999 is a memetic effect that triggers when a person mentions that they were, at some point in the past, present at a bar Midway Kentucky named The Alibi. Any person who hears this claim will believe it at face value.

This effect is not absolute. If the claim that a person was present at SCP-9999 conflicts with previously held information, persons with above average deductive reasoning skills are able to spot the discrepancy. A more egregious discrepancy assists in this process. For this reason the public Special Containment Procedures mention that SCP-9999 is inaccessible and allude to an anomalous effect.

Addendum: Known references to SCP-9999:

Date: August 1st, 1971

Description of event: 25 members of the Los Angeles biker gang Vagos mention being present at SCP-9999 during armed conflict with the Hell's Angels. Local police clear them of any involvement in the shootout.

Foundation response: Records altered to support the official stance that the Hell's Angels were fighting themselves in an internal power struggle.

Date: April 28th, 1994

Description of event: Dr. Arnold Crusher, stationed at a Foundation antarctic research base, mentioned a bar from his youth. Due to a miscommunication other members of staff believe he mentioned visiting there during lunch. This is believed at face value despite the impossible distance, except for one member with a natural resistance to memetic effects. She reports the incident to site command.

Foundation response: All members involved given Amnestics, and all logs are destroyed.

Date: September 5th, 1998

Description of event: Dr. Arnold Crusher watches a security tape of the above incident, which was missed during the subsequent cover up. He believes his own claim at face value. One week later, he takes a vacation to the site of SCP-9999.

Foundation response: Dr. Arnold Crusher is terminated to avoid a potential security breach. All members of the antarctic research base given Amnestic treatment.

Date: January 16th, 2002

Description of event: An agent working for Marshal, Carter and Dark enters Site-19 with a shirt that reads "I'm chilling at The Alibi." Foundation staff react with concern, but ignore the agent upon reading the shirt. The agent retrieves several SCP objects from storage before walking out of Site-19 uncontested.

Foundation response: No response was necessary, as the agent was at The Alibi during the incident and could not have been responsible.

Detective Quincy entered the locally famous Alibi bar east of Los Angeles. It was a smoky, dimly lit bar filled with ex-cons, their rough exterior and hardened expressions betrayed their past lives behind bars. The air was thick with the scent of cigarettes and cheap liquor. Glasses clinked and low murmurs filled the room. The patrons sat at dark wooded worn tables, nursing their drinks and swapping stories. The atmosphere was tense and uneasy, as if at any moment a fight could break out. In the corner, a lone figure sat, playing a melancholy tune on a worn out piano.

Leaning up against the bar, Quincy waited for the bartender Maurice to come by. He wore a tight black shirt and tight black pants.

"Hey I'm Maurice. What can I get you this evening?" The bartender asked.

"Just the man I'm looking for. How do you do?" Quincy asked. "I'll actually pass on the drink, but thank you, though. I'm here to talk about Jonathan Byron. You see, I'm a detective. Was he here last week on Monday? That's 10 days ago."

"Oh yes, Jonathan Byron. He was here 10 days ago."

Detective Quincy smirked. "Was he here on Tuesday?"

"Yes, he was here on Tuesday."

"Very interesting. What about Wednesday?" Detective Quincy rubbed his chin. He knew that Maurice was lying.

"Uh-huh."

"Thursday?"

"Yep."

"... Friday?"

"Jonathan's got a real drinking problem if I'm being candid." Maurice chuckled.

"That's funny, so his Alcoholics Anonymous attendance is purely for show then?"

"I guess so. I don't judge." Maurice shrugged. "What's this about anyways?"

Detective Quincy scanned the bar. He knew the place well, one of the only people on the police force that actually understood what Alibi was all about. "You see, Jonathan actually disappeared. This was the last place he was seen according to an eyewitness."

"Oh. He disappeared?"

"Yeah, but he didn't take any money or steal anything. We're actually worried about his safety, Mr. Maurice. There's no way he was here this whole week. He disappeared on Monday night. Last seen going east in Arizona on Tuesday."

Maurice scoffed, irritated by getting caught in the lie. "I don't know what you want me to say. Why don't you bother the Arizona police force and get them to shake their asses for you?"

Detective Quincy cleared his throat. "This may seem like a weird question, Maurice, but how's your wife recently? Has she been depressed?"

"What else is new, pal."

"Moreso than usual?"

Maurice narrowed his eyes at Quincy.

Detective Quincy frowned. "I only ask because, and I hate to tell you this, Jonathan was having an affair with your wife."

Maurice had a vein pop in his neck. "Wait. Who is this guy?"

"I thought you knew him? I thought he came here everyday?" Quincy mocked.

"Look, I don't know this guy, okay? And stop spreading this lie that my wife is having an affair!"

Detective Quincy took a deep breath. "Maurice, I only say this because Jonathan and your wife are both in grave danger, and I need as much information as I can get if they are going to survive. Now, I can imagine you don't care for Jonathan, but you still love your wife. We need to take action now to protect her."

Maurice looked like he was about to explode with rage, but he exhaled and pulled out a cigarette from his pocket. "Meet me out back."

r/randallcooper

I am the proprietor of a bar in a shithole. That's putting it lightly, but it's mostly true. I'm surprised that I haven't been robbed more. But my clientele seem to mainly consist of the big, rough and tough, built like a brick outhouse variety. So maybe they don't rob me for that reason.

I'd say they like me quite a bit out here. I mean, it's always busy, I make a lot of money, and they all tip remarkably well.

But I get a lot of phone calls from the local police department. I mean, a lot of phone calls. I've even had a few policemen, who were plain-clothed but very obviously out of place, come down and ask me about some of my clientele.

... I know all of them had come to The Alibi at some point. I just don't remember when. I don't have a particularly great memory for faces and such, but is it really lying if I don't know whether I'm lying or not? Besides, every time I answer with a "Yes, I do recall seeing them" I get far more gracious tips.

I think it's because the guys that come in here are very kind.

Sure, I don't know why I received two free trucks of alcohol that one time, or why I received a very generous offer to have the place renovated, or why I received a free shipment of new tables and chairs, or why I'm being paid 10,000 a month to allow my clientele free reign of the basement. I couldn't even tell you why they stop me from going down there. Maybe they live down there?

Anyway, I think all my clientele are very nice people. I don't think any of them are thugs, even if everyone else thinks they are. All they need is a drink and someone to talk to.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to fill up some bowls with almonds.

A woman sat at the stool by the bar. At first glance, she appeared nondescript with shoulder length brown hair partially covering her face. Her clothes were wrinkled as if lying on the floor for days and then thrown on. The low lights cast shadows on her body making hard to identify anything about her. Neither seats beside her were occupied.The bartender, Mike glanced over and could see her anxiety in every movement. Her legs fidgeting as the swung back and forth above the floor. Moments where she seemed to be attempting deep breaths. Her hands had a tremor as she gripped her purse. When the average citizen ended up here, this was a typical response. Fear. The Alibi had a particular reputation with an unsavory clientele. It had become a hub of sorts for criminals. Mike moved down the bar to take her drink order or help her move on her way. The regulars always got nervous when new unknown faces showed up.

Mike thought that there wasn’t anything that could really surprise him anymore, but he was wrong. He approached ready to deal with her. Her eyes lifted up and the hair shifted away from her face. Her left eye was badly bruised. Choke marks from a hand surrounded her neck. She had some scratch marks and bruising on her right arm.

“What can I get you?” He asked.

He watched her struggle to speak. She licked her chapped lips, cleared her throat, and swallowed some spit. Again, she took a deep breath.

“Can I get something nonalcoholic?” Her voice was scratchy and strained.

“Sure. How about a virgin daiquiri.” She nodded. “Do you want me to open a tab?” He asked.

She shook her head no. She handed him cash.

“It works better with a credit card.” Mike told her. “Helps prove that you’re here.”

She shook her had no. “I don’t want him to know.” She muttered. The words were hard to make out from the noise of the sports games playing on the tvs. “Seen this place on his credit card statement one too many times.”

Mike felt worried. “Just who are you referring to?”

“Ben o’Rouke.”

Mike glanced at the clock knowing Ben’s normal arrival time was soon. He planned actual visits here, so they would have footage of him the bar. It be easy enough to fake date and time stamps later. Just an additional service provided. How did Ben know this woman?

Mike worked on completing the woman’s drink while subtly gesturing for the other staff to get management. His sense was that there was something off. She sipped slowly her drink. Ben finally burst in wearing a suit with a wide smile on his face.

“Hey, Mike. A shot of whiskey.” He sauntered to the bar.

The woman grabbed her purse and spun on the stool to face Ben. Ben’s face clouded over recognizing the woman.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded.

She pulled out a gun from her purse and shot him. She shoved the gun back in the purse. Ben was gasping for breath lying on the ground in an instant. The rest of the bar stared in stunned silence. She kicked him in the shins as she jumped off the stool. She appeared unsteady as if drunk. She landed another kick in the stomach. Ben groaned. At this point, management was calling for EMS. She walked out.

“Who was that?” Someone asked.

“I don’t know.” Mike responded. All he knew was that the night was ruined.

Always loved bars like this. Quiet, unassuming, nobody causing no crap but everybody giving a crap while pretending they don't. Worn and scratched up, smelling stale and old yet warm and welcoming if you're the right kind to feel it. Technically I'm not the right kind but I always feel better around these folks.

Local cops and detectives sometimes come in but they know they get nothing from here. Everyone was here, everyone saw everyone and if it was proven they were somewhere else, you give a shrug and a "must have got the nights confused" and the cops just gotta walk away.

Not tonight though. Tonight "she" walked in. Never seen her before but she starts flashing a picture. Starts by the door with the standard "Was this man here three nights ago?" crap. Thing is everyone who answers gets corrected. "Yeah think I saw him" or "Yeah he seemed cool I bought him a draft." Gets answered with the truth "No you didn't you were not here you were on a date with your best friend's wife." "No you didn't you've been broke for 2 weeks and are running up a tab but wish someone would buy you a draft."

Now no one is answering, but she keeps walking through, asking and then saying "Uh huh, I see." and keeps moving. Folks are getting nervous but that will end in a second. Bartender is barking and asking for ID but she is just ignoring him. She told the bouncer to sit when he walked up and he did. Such confidence. The bravado of the untouchable. My turn though.

"Ma'am have you seen this man?"

"Yep, been here all week. Just left about an hour ago." There is the pause. Not even going to look up at her. "Is there an issue officer? Something wrong with your telepathy?"

"Telepathy? Why would you say that?"

"Because that's what you were using. You ask your question then read the true answer off their minds. Dirty little trick to be using on a class 3 planet with a class 2 Psi rating and illegal in much of the Consortium of Civilized Worlds. But we are outside Consortium borders now are we not. Matter of fact" sniff sniff "You're outside your sphere of power completely are you not little miss" sniff sniff "Cosmo knight."

She has noticed, the bar has not just gone quiet but is actually frozen, unmoving in any way.

"I'm in pursuit of a criminal most heinous. If you have any information I would very much appreciate the help."

"Not happening. This is the Alibi and I already told you, he's been here all week. Just left about an hour ago. Now, if there is anything else, I'd like to see your Imperium hunting permit because if you don't have one then you are trespassing, on MY territory." Now I'll give her a look, and let one eye shift yellow.

"You're a Lycan. An Imperium officer?"

"Don't know what you are talking about ma'am. If I did though, I'd probably have to inform you that with your presence known you've got until the next full moon to get off planet or be the subject of a hunt. That would be 5 days from now. Good luck with your search though."

The noise and movement returns to the bar.

"As I said ma'am, he has been here all week, just left about an hour ago I think." She looks nervous for a moment.

"Well, that's good to know. Thank you."

She leaves, life gets back to being good. Bonus, the bar keep sent me a free drink, another 'Blood of my enemies'. Good crap.

I'll have to make sure she does leave...or never leaves. Then look into her "criminal most heinous" myself.

[deleted]

The police force had no leads. They resorted to shaking down all the regular criminals in the small town. "So, where were you last Tuesday, Brucey Boy?" asked Detective Phillips. "Tuesday nights I'm always at the ball game with my stepson" responded Bruce. "How 'bout you Cheryl? Were you out drinking again?" the Detective questioned. "Dry January. I been home all month watching TV with Ronny." Phillips remembered that Ronny was her boyfriend but he'd been in a car accident and had a broken leg. The alibi made sense. Joel was working on his front lawn when Detective Phillips approached. "How can I help ya officer?" After admiring the shiny Corvette in the driveway, the police officer asked Joel where he was last Tuesday around 9pm. "Oh last Tuesday, I was at The Alibi. Lots of people saw me there." he responded. "Just what I wanted to hear. You're under arrest." Phillips handcuffed Joel and put him in the back of the police car. As he brought Joel into the police station, he announced "fellas, I got him. Joel McRay even admitted to being at The Alibi at the time it was robbed. Case closed."

"Jim? Sure, he was here Tuesday."

"....I can't accept your word for it, Sam. I'm afraid your bar's got a, um, a reputation."

"A good reputation?"

"Not exactly, no, It's a reputation for... for getting dates mixed up, shall we say. Can you prove that Jim was here Tuesday?"

"Sure," I nod. "We got a new security camera system, let's give it a try, shall we?" I turn on the computer and speak into the microphone. "Computer, print the picture of Jim enjoying a drink at the bar last Tuesday, please."

The computer hums, and extrudes a piece of paper. The detective grabs it before I can see it and studies it intensely.

".....I see that your bar had a few planets indoors Tuesday," he says.

"Look, if people wanna decorate for some party..."

"And I see that Jim has apparently regrown his pinkie. Oh, in fact, he has six fingers on that hand now?"

"You got your photo evidence. Was there anything else you wanted, Detective?"

"Photo evidence, no." The detective drops the printout. "This image was drawn by AI, wasn't it?"

Jason never thought he would have to enter a place like Alibi but here he was, knocking on the old doors, shivering under the hooded overcoat and mumbling under his breath to himself.

It has been a long night for Jason, he was just another high school kid when he had left his home at 7 in the evening and yet here he is a most wanted by police and underworld both at 1 in the night.

Jason had left his home all excited to try marijuana for the first time with his school buddy Matt, it was all normal and boring until they were ambushed by police while buying weed and the seller dead in crossfire. They were able to escape but there problems seemed to only increase after they ran away with all the stock of seller and found a hundred grand in the bag.

They didn’t know the money was for an assassin who has just got rid of the detective who was going hard on drug trade in the area. The police was on their back thinking they are the assassin and gang was on their back for the stolen money thinking they are with the police.

There decision to hide at Matt’s home didn’t work when Matt was killed by the gang waiting there and Jason had to run for his life leaving the bag there only to be trailed by police shortly afterwards.

Jason though only way to get out of this situation was to dive even deeper and get an alibi for both police and gang through the alibi.

The bar was a perfect square with low ceilings, dim lights and wooden walls and ceilings. On entering, the right side beside was taken by the reception counter having a big moth eaten table occupied by Bella, a woman in her late thirties with fuzzy hair, a half broken upper teeth, wearing loose black dress like the English women wore during colonial times. The wall behind her houses a wooden cabinet without doors that housed all kinds of unbranded liquor and a few barrels beside it.

There were round tables for four, densely packed in whole of the remaining part of the bar, filled with people of all kind, from expensive suit wearing businessmen to people in old, dusty, and torn misfitting clothes like homeless men.

The beauty of the bar was that they didn’t take money from customers, if you want a favour, in return you awe them one, favours was their currency. Donations from the rich clients kept them running for supply of liquor and snacks.

When Jason narrated his ordeal, he was sent to an empty table number 6 where he was joined by a rugged looking man, short and wide in stature with overgrown beard, trimmed hair and scars all over his right side of face, commonly knows as Baddy.

‘Forget about the gang, take it as a free favour from me but you got to do something for me to get rid of police’ said Baddy while he poured whiskey for Jason

‘Well that’s very nice of you Mr…’

‘Baddy they call me but you can call me Bradley’

‘But Mr Bradley, the gang guys want me dead, they already killed my friend’

‘They won’t bother you anymore because I have already got my payment of 100 grand’

‘And Police?’

‘I will get records made for you in backdate that you were in juvenile correctional facility for stealing a car at the time of incident but in return for a favour’

‘And what that favour might can be?’

‘Since you already have an alibi, you can very well use it to get rid of the head of the gang who fucking gave me blood stained currency’

When a bar goes quiet, it's usually because of something a sane person would be scared of. A gang leader, perhaps, or some eldritch horror. This time, it was a child. A little girl who couldn't have been older than ten. A ragged, tearstained girl with clothes too small and the start of a nasty bruise swelling up on her right eye. The Alibi was full this evening, and it was a perfect evening for scheming, recruiting, bargaining, and assorted foolery, as soon as the occupants saw that child in the room everything went quiet.

"Hey little girl. What are you doing in here?" That was Dak asking, if you want to know. He'd been sitting in the back corner, but now his giant form was standing there, right in front of the kid. I honestly hadn't even seen him move, but he's usually fast. It's how gentle he was being that shocked me.

The girl bit her lip, and I don't blame her. Dak was a real bear, 6'3", muscular, huge, really terrifying dude. She said "D-daddy comes here. He says it's for h-hiding. Can I hide here? I'm s-scared." Kinda felt bad for her, the tiny thing, looking at Dak's giant paws. One of those paws rested on her shoulder now as he knelt down to her and asked who her dad was in the kindest voice that ever spoke in that rowdy place. I think the kindness worked to calm her down, she didn't stutter when she responded. "He's not here right now. But he's tall, and loud, and scary. Do I need him with me to hide?"

Dak was about to talk then, dunno what he was trying to say. I don't think he managed to get a syllable out before the door slammed open and Rale walked in, the bastard. Someone in the room tried to say hi, but the rat didn't care. Dunno what he was planning on doing in the Alibi that night, but when he saw the girl it didn't matter. He snarled at her, all temper. "You. What the hell are you doing here?"

The next few things went quick. The girl squeaked and tried to run, where she thought she'd be able to get is a mystery. That bastard Rale grabbed my drink, threw it at her. It shattered on her back, spraying glass and beer and blood halfway across the room. She slipped and collapsed, curling up in a ball by the table leg. Jem and some other bouncer grabbed Rale's arms and Lynn, our lovely bartender, reached for the phone. She's the one who called ya, by the way. She's not keen on violence in her bar. Dak bent down to the girl. Didn't hear what he asked, didn't hear what she said. I was too far away, and besides, at that point I didn't care. Rale was a bastard, he owed me a drink, and he'd spilled blood right there in the bar. We were all pissed. But we weren't Dak.

I expect you already know enough about this bit, but Dak went full out. Smashed Rale's face in, first. Then the rest of him. Used that metal thingamajig right there. Doug, he was at the table by Dak and the girl, got in the way of anyone who tried to stop him. Told the whole bar that Dak had asked whether Rale was the girl's daddy, and if he'd hurt her. Told us that she'd said yes to both.

To be honest, I don't know why Dak did that. I don't know any other reason than that for him to let out on Rale, but if it's true than he had it coming to him. I saw the girl, you saw the girl, I don't know what else needs to be said. So yeah, officer, I guess that's my story. It's true, too. If you ask anyone else you'll hear the same thing.

This was not a usual night for The Alibi. Or at least, that's what Sheila would like to say.

She chewed her gum while she cleaned the glass, looking to anyone like her head was completely empty. The gum kept her from clenching her jaw. Tonight she'd needed three sticks, almost used up her entire pack.

"HEY! I'm talking to you, tramp!" A glass sailed two inches past her nose and into the wall with a crunch. Shards of mixed glass rained down over her array of whiskeys from a six-inch spiderweb in the mirror that spanned the entire length of the bar's back wall.

She chewed her gum as she widened and then narrowed her eye at the damage. Chew. Chew.

Chew.

Turning back to her unwelcome guest, Sheila shook her head twice, letting the flyaways from her silver-streaked bun bounce around her furious face. Dark eyes glared at the unkempt trash with one fist on the bar, his hand still out and open from the throw, ready to slap whoever came close.

"That mirror cost me $8,000. Who should I be making that invoice out to?" She spoke evenly around her gum, her normally syrup-sweet voice deeper and louder to cut over what few hushed conversations were still taking place in the far corners of the establishment. All normal discussions had halted as soon as the man had slammed open the door, screaming his wife's name.

"Who cares about your ugly mirror? Where is Tammy?!" Sheila had spent the better part of her life determining exactly how drunk and out of control someone was. This tall excuse for a dickwart had breath that could stun a horse, but there was only the barest hint of alcohol in it. His control level, however, seemed virtually nonexistent, and Sheila was grateful for the distance her trusty mahogany bar put between her and the walking powder keg.

"For the fifth time, I am barkeeper, not a travel agent or a secretary." Sheila put a hand out to her side, palm up, and laid it on her edge of the hardwood, "I don't know where she is, only that she was here earlier."

The creaking of chairs now echoed in the bar's near-silence. The groaning of 200 and 300-pound men sitting ready, just waiting for the word, waiting for the opportunity to crack bones and split knuckles.

Uncaring of the countless ex-cons littering the establishment, the instigator slammed both fists on the mahogany again. "Well, when was that?! Where did she go from here? Where. Is. SHE?"

"Sir, I do not have any more information on the matter than when you asked ten seconds ago. And as she is clearly not in our company, I'm afraid I need to ask you to leave this establishment, or I will call the authorities."

Todd scoffed and started to interrupt, but Sheila spoke over him, loud enough for the entire bar to hear. "Once they are involved, I am obligated as a mandatory reporter to tell them exactly what I've seen of you and Tammy. And they will run warrants on everyone present, which-"

The SCREECH of four dozen mismatched chairs made Todd jump and finally take a look around as the irregulars of The Alibi stood and turned their flood of intimidating glowers on the beer-stained wifebeater. He took an involuntary step back, unaware of the brooding bouncer looming over the 6'3" man. Backing into that muscle wall, Todd's blood ran cold, turning his tanning bed orange face a sallow hue.

"-which will land your ass in jail until Monday morning alongside a not insignificant number of my patrons, whose displeasure will only be superseded by the displeasure of their employers. One of which you should be very familiar with." Sheila pulled out her cell phone, slowly unlocking it as she let the collective malice of the bar soak him down to the bone.

Checking her bars, she then held the screen up with the speed dial highlighted: M. Malone. A scared gasp broke the dead silence, and Sheila then set the device down on the bar in front of her. Brushing some errant hairs behind her unpierced ears, she leveled a squared, emotionless gaze upon this would-be invader, "Now, I will say again. Yes, Tammy was here, I'm genuinely sorry you missed her, but she moved on, and you should, too. Please, keep looking for her, but you will not file a missing persons report when she was seen within the last 72 hours alive and well. And should a report be filed, The Alibi will sign written statements confirming this. Do we understand each other?"

She raised a challenging brunette eyebrow, and pulled her gum out of her cheek to rely upon again. Chew.

Chew.

Chew.

"...yes." Todd growled, yanking his shoulder out of the bouncer's grip while turning to leave. All eyes remained on him until he was out the door, and then on the door until both bouncers exited, closing the door firmly behind them.

Then the men turned their stares to Sheila, who held them with the practiced poise of a politician. Chew. Chew. Rolling her eyes, she blew a bubble for variety's sake.

"Yeah, yeah, next round's on me. Actually, it's on that dickthistle, cause I am 120% billing him for the mirror!" She popped her bubble as a round of low chuckles preceded the return to conversation and carousing that this bar's guardian demons were known for. While fresh beers and scotches for most of the bar would come as they finished their current glasses, Sheila pulled up two Old Fashioned glasses. Popping ice spheres in each — one looking like a Death Star, the other a teddy bear's head — she poured two heavy glasses of West Cork and carried them out from behind her hardwood domain.

Crossing the room, she gingerly hands the two retired seals their Irish whiskey before trotting past them into the storeroom. Busying herself with replacing the empty keg for her Guinness, Sheila softens her smile at the sound of soft blubbering sobs in the back corner.

Only once she's finished does Sheila allow herself to look at the mess of a woman huddled on a beat-up couch piled high with cushions. The young ginger of the hour hugs one of the largest (and plushest) cushions to her chest while her face is half-buried in a nearly soaked-through accent pillow.

"Oh, don't do that, Tammy, you've already cried yourself out twice today; you're gonna get dehydrated again." Sheila comes over and brushes the girls' pulled and pinched hair back in a soothing motion. "I told you. He isn't gonna find you, and he isn't coming back. Oh, I wish you could've seen it, Tam, he was so scared of Gil and the boys he almost pissed himself!"

Tammy laughed, hoarse and muddled with phlegm, and grabbed Sheila's hand, both starved for and afraid of physical contact. "I... I was so scared when you said you were gonna call the cops, Sheila. I gasped so loud I almost thought ya'll heard me!"

"Don't worry, the boys covered that up reeeeal well." Sheila smiled, then gently extricated herself and headed for the door. "Now, you know the rules. No phone, no leaving the room, no nothing for at least a week except using the bathroom when we're not open, and the windows are all covered. That means get some sleep and don't worry. The boys have got our backs, alright?"

Nodding, the exhausted runaway tossed her wet pillow onto the floor and slid down, returning her stand-in plush to its first purpose as a pillow. Sheila clicked off the USB minilamp on a cask-turned-nightstand and moved back across to the door, wiping her face and once again thankful she'd had the sense to remove her makeup when the rainbow-bruised redhead had crashed through the front doors hours ago.

Massaging her scarred shoulder through her soft silk top, the secondhand bar owner thanked the heavens for her bar's reputation amongst the women of her city. While men might fear The Alibi, she'd further built this hole-in-the-wall into a haven, and she would defend it as fearlessly as she defended the freedom of any man who maintained the bar's original "secret"

Goodbye Johnny was not well liked, and barely tolerated. His real name was lost in a haze of smoke and waves of awful whiskey. Bad bars felt like home to Goodbye Johnny, especially The Alibi. When the people at the Alibi had enough of his meanness, someone would start interrupting him, "Goodbye, Johnny!". Slumped figures at the bar and tables would pick up the words till the room was chanting, and Johnny left. His nickname may seem unkind, but so was he. He greeted people with insults, and he enjoyed inflicting the deepest cuts possible. He'd goad old Mike about his wife's cancer. When he sat near Stacy who had miscarried, he'd hum a lullaby. He tortured Gerald by making beeping sounds, like a vehicle backing up. Gerald, who had accidentally backed his car over his grandson, damaging his legs. And every taunt was accompanied by his jarring, wheezing donkey laugh. Somehow, Goodbye Johnny knew everyone's sore spots, and they hated him.
But no one did anything. The rules at the Alibi were unbending. Alibis for all and NO FIGHTING, as the sign behind the bar said. Until one September night, after shouting Johnny out of the bar, revenge was plotted. He would get what he deserved.

Old Mike talked to a guy, who provided a very recently dead body. No questions were asked.

Sticky, who was actually named after Ronald Reagan by his very average parents, lifted Johnny's buck knife from his jacket, left side. It was easy as Johnny used to tap that spot when he was nervous.

WhileGerald and Mike argued about who would set the grousome scene, Stacy pulled a glove on to protect Johnny's fingerprints, and stabbed the corpse in the heart, leaving the knife in to explain the lack of blood. They gingerly arranged their dead guy so lividity would match.

They shared a soul-searching gaze with the rest of the patrons, and everyone gave a solmon nod.

With a slight tremor in his hands, Mike called his childhood friend, detective Jim Heart. Jim and his partner parked around the block, waiting for a signal. Gerald stood outside pretending to talk to his wife, watching for Johnny. When Johnny walked past Gerald, Johnny made a beeping sound, and guffawed his horsey laugh as he swung open the door. Gerald dialed Jim, it's time. The room was absolutely still. No one moved or spoke. Mike pointed to the dead guy on top of the bar, "Is that your knife, Johnny?" Mike asked quietly. Johnny saw his own, distinctive knife sticking out of the corpse's chest.

Johnny stood disbelieving, his skin instantly pale and sweaty.

It was his vanity, that knife. It was a carving of johnny's own face, done by a gifted artist on the handle, coated in red laquer.

Johnny looked around and tried to chuckle, but it came out strangled. "Well, at least I have an alibi", he said, raising his hand for a high five, but no one moved or spoke, making it easy for Johnny to hear the sirens. Panic rose, and still they sat and watched. Johnny, alternatnated yelling at them and pleading. Finally, Mike smiled and winked, " No problem Johnny, it's the Alibi. We got ya.

Johnny deflated with relief, sinking into a chair as the cops walked in.

Everyone one was interviewed. Johnny swaggered through his, so confident you could smell it. It smelled strangely like teen spirit.

When the police approached Johnny with cuffs, he argued as they secured the cuffs, he stuttered out that he had an alibi.

The police told him that everyone had said Johnny was there, and that it was Johnny's knife..

As they walked him across the room, Gerald held the door and called out cheerfully, "Goodbye, Johnny!"

Stacy and Mike joined in, then they all took up the cry

"Goodbye, Johnny", echoed into the dark...

And good riddance.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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The law comes to question you under dim light.

It says, “Tell me, just where were you last night?”

You might respond, “Well, officer, I,

Was drinking last night at the Alibi.”

“Truly,” he mutters, exuding disgrace,

“Not even once have I heard of that place.”

“Surely you have, there on Shoreline and Rye,

A big neon sign reads, ‘The Alibi.’”

Red and blue sirens then drown out Shoreline;

The officers park and look ‘round for the sign.

Do their dismay, you’ve indeed told a lie,

For there is no sign of the Alibi.

One man comes forth, and behind him one more.

They claim to be normals at old Rye and Shore.

“We drink on the daily!” They’re met with a sigh.

“We drink on the daily at the Alibi!”

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