The Blackout of Markus Moore

The Blackout of Markus Moore Dan Grylles Published by Whisper Writer Press, 2023. This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. THE BLACKOUT OF MARKUS MOORE First edition. March 31, 2023. Copyright © 2023 Dan Grylles. ISBN: 979-8985637748 Written by Dan Grylles. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Epilogue About the Author Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Lord Alfred Tennyson Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone. from The Tempest, Act 5, Scene William Shakespeare Chapter 1 Why am I on the floor? I open my eyes, but everything is a blur. My head is throbbing. I’m lying face down, and I struggle to get up on one knee. There’s music and shuffling of people, glasses, and plates. But the sounds around me are a murmur, indistinct. It’s as if I’m in an airport where people are walking all around me, yet no one seems to notice me or want to help me. I feel unstable, like I’m going to keel over. Am I hurt? Did I black out? Or was it syncope? How long was I out for? Did I have a seizure, a heart attack? Am I hypoglycemic? Anemic? Do I have high blood pressure? Why am I thinking all these questions? I reach around and touch the backside of my head. Through my short afro I feel a cut and a wet stickiness. I still can’t see very well, but I move my fingers around to my nose and sniff. It’s blood and . . . beer? “Yeah!” says an angry male voice a few feet away. “That’s what you get, boy! You wanna go for round two?” “Just step back, Johnny!” I hear another voice say. Someone in authority. I can barely stand up. “He started it, Duke!” another voice defensively says to my right. “What an asshole! That was going easy on him. We should beat the crap out of him.” “His kind shouldn’t even be in here,” says the first voice. “Knock that crap off,” says the Authority, possibly Duke. He walks up to me and grabs my arm to support me. “Mister, are you okay?” The Authority helps me to my feet. I rub my eyes to clear my vision. “I think I . . . where are my . . . glasses?” I struggle to get the words out. My throat is dry. I can’t think straight. I think I’m inebriated. Did I pass out from drinking some poor-quality spirits? I instinctively cover my mouth and exhale into my hand. I can smell alcohol. I am inebriated. Am I a drunk? A person who is really a drunk won’t admit it. How do I know that? Someone shoves a pair of glasses into my hand. I slide them on. One arm feels loose, but they’re still attached and the lenses are intact. My surroundings are getting clearer. “Are you okay?” says Authority again. “I . . . I think so,” I mutter. Even I can barely hear my voice. I rub the back of my head again. It stings. “Hmm.” Authority sounds unconvinced. He directs his attention to the others. “Johnny, you go about and mind your own business. You, too, Frankie. You remember last time?” I hear groans. My provocateurs back off from what I can tell as my sight slowly returns. The small crowd around me disperses. I appear to be in a bar of some sorts. I hear country music, but I don’t recognize the song. I prefer . . . classical? Why am I here? Authority is a fifty-something Willie Nelson doppelganger with long, ragged, salt and pepper hair and burly arms covered with navy tattoos. An anchor. Pretty sailor girl. He takes a minute to size me up with his eyes. “Mister, I ain’t never seen you here before. But my advice to you is call a cab and get the hell out of here as fast as you can before you get jumped. Them boys don’t mess around. I don’t tolerate their behavior here, but I especially don’t like drunks acting the way you did, white, black, or otherwise.” “I’m sorry, I don’t . . .” I forget what I’m going to say. Authority, who seems to be the owner of this bar, waves to a woman behind the bar. “Maria, help this guy out, will you?” “Sure, Duke,” Maria says, setting down a glass she’s been drying. She’s Latina, about twenty-five, tall, pretty, long black hair, and chewing gum. Checkered shirt. Blue jeans. She lifts the end flap of the bar and comes around as Authority steps behind the bar. In her cowgirl boots, she’s an inch taller than I am, and she’s got cowgirl written all over her. “Don’t try anything,” she says with a smirk. “I’m a karate blackbelt.” Maria grabs my arm. Not gently. She’s obviously done this before. I’m wobbly and don’t feel like putting up a fight anyway. She guides me to the bar’s front door. People ignore us. Going back to their drinks at the bar, the booths, the pool tables. They probably think I’m now tamed in Maria’s grasp. I smell the mustiness of beer and sweat. An old wooden floor creaks under my steps. The word EXIT glows green, cutting through the dimness above a solid wooden door. Across the oak-paneled walls and under soft accent lights, I begin to see framed pictures of celebrities, some