He wore his sport coat like a cape. Face all the worse for gravity’s ongoing story. Thin red lips stenciled across pancake batter, triplicate chins that spilled over a black bolo tie. Silver shock of greasy hair combed back towards sloping shoulders. Twin thistles arched over eyes with no apparent  iris.

MoJo would hobble into Creole Nights, led by the scent of an empty seat. Find a perch with some difficulty. His massive gut kept him from sliding in, so he would sit with his legs to the side. Light a thin cigarillo. Order a carafe of sake. No reflection to speak of; his head hanging far below the horizon of barback bottles. Couldn’t prove he wasn’t a vampire. No way to prove he was a Navy Seal, either. All I had was his word that he was one of those two, and not a monster.

I never got the lowdown on where he was from. Where he lived. How old he was. Married, divorced, widower. Wasn’t sure of anything other than a single exchange one night in the dog’s asshole of summertime.

MoJo caught me staring past an empty drink.

He motioned for Zephyr to send a little extra heat my way.

I ended up with a helping of sake and that beady stare of his.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome.” His voice was raspy. Ludicrously high on the octave, especially for a man his size.

He began to pour into his ochoko.

Hand shaking, giving the bar more than its share.

I took the carafe from his hand and poured.

Set it down, poured my own.

I raised my glass. “Thanks again.”

“Yeah.”

I took the unwelcomed warmth down my throat. Bitter and recriminating. The grateful taste of bad leftovers.

I poured myself another.

Caught MoJo barely sipping on his.

Ripples of a damp August heat had made their way underground. Glistening dewdrops along the foreheads of regulars, clinging to the breasts of irregular women and the necks of dangerous parasites.

MoJo wasn’t sweating. His face one sweeping Saharan wasteland.

I pointed to my carafe. “There’s nothing refreshing about this shit.”

He nodded. “Got a taste for it when I was stationed in Japan for a spell.”

“Be sure and thank it for me.”

We drank for a while. Had another round. I poured both our helpings, lit our smokes.

He began to cough. Hacking away, jaw tearing at the seams.

A nearby table of bachelorettes turned up the volume on their conversation. Shared glances and omigods.

“You all right?” I asked.

He wiped a bit of saliva from his chin. Extracted a pocket square and cleaned his hands. Reached for his drink. “You know, it wasn’t Kennedy that created the Seals.”

“Sorry if you think I ever said so.”

He gulped down his sake. Hands on a more even keel, he poured himself another. “It was the UDTs in Korea that really got it going. They refined their skills. Expanded. Wasn’t just mine demolition anymore. Moved inland. Bridges, tunnels, railroads.”

“Yeah?”

“And all of it started with the Sea Bees. World War II. My father was there. D-Day. Normandy. Omaha Beach. Didn’t luck out like the boys at Utah.”

“Yeah?”

“Got my training back in ’62. Coronado. Me and my buddies set foot in Vietnam before anyone even knew there was going to be a war. Marines can go to hell. First to fight my ass.”

“Yeah.”

“Runs in my blood…” Mojo closed his eyes, gave his enormous head a shake. “Born to kill.”

I didn’t say anything. Had some sake.

“Think it’s not as real as all that?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

“You want to tell me I did what I had to do…” He couldn’t bring his face to register the accusation. Made do with making his cigarillo sneer a bright red. “Tell me what’s what. What’s right. Help me rationalize. Make it good. Make it acceptable to you and everyone else down here in hell.”

It wasn’t the worst of questions. “Did you do what you had to do?”

“If you’re running a raid on a village. And it’s pitch black. And you round a hut and find yourself face to face with a four-year-old boy who crawled his way out of bed for God knows what reason…” He glanced up at the clock, then back to his drink. “You got less than one second to ask yourself what happens if this kid screams and wakes up the whole goddamn place. Gives us away. Am I going to feel bad? Yes. Am I going to pray that God forgive me? Yes. Am I going to be able to have a drink with my buddies afterwards? You better fucking bet.”

The memories weren’t enough to make him sweat, but his eyes were stuck in the swamps.

I tilted my head.

He took down the last of it. “Still want to thank me for my service?”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Thank you.”

But he was right about one thing.

He was right about the rest of us.

Even me.

“So what?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“So you sliced and shot your way through Vietnam.”

“I killed women,” he told me. Beaded raindrops all along his hideous face . “I killed children. Women and children.”

“And now it’s over.”

“It never is,” he said.

“Killing. You must be done.”

“I still do it,” he said.

I took another look at his overweight figure. “You think you do.”

“I train,” he said. “I train others. Young men. Lots of men. I tell them what I did. I tell them what I did wrong. And I teach them how to do it better. So much better than we were, and we were the best… Someday, they will be too. Better than we ever were.”

“Can you really kill better?”

“You can.” He reached out to touch the ashtray. Just touch it with a single, clubbed finger. “Because that’s what I am. It’s what I do.”

He was crying now. Rivers of saline watering his gut. Soaking into his white button-up. His whole face shone like a dying puddle.

I wasted several seconds searching for something else to say.

`“Stop making sense,” he told me. “Don’t make sense, because what comes next won’t. It just won’t bother. Stop making sense.”

“I’m going to have to go to the bathroom first.”

“Go.”

I went.

And when I came back, MoJo was asleep. Still trapped in the same position. Shoulders a little more hunched. Muscle memory assuring he wouldn’t slump over, seek any comfort. On watch, even in his dreams.

It ended the same as any other night for him.

Zephyr made his way over and snubbed his cigarillo. Tapped him on the shoulder a few times. Told him the bar was no place for sleep. Go on home, MoJo. Go home and we’ll see you tomorrow.

MoJo didn’t bother to say goodbye.

Left the way he came in. Retraced his steps back out into the jungle.

Zephyr gave me a look.

I sent it back with a request for a refill.

Our conversation left me with a taste for sake, so I ordered nothing but for well over a month, before Zephyr realized MoJo would never be coming back in.

Soon after, I walked down the stairs and saw the oversized sake warmer had been replaced with an extra seat at the bar.

I sat down. Ordered a Jack Daniel’s, and waited to see who would step in to finish MoJo’s work.

# # #

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so long and thanks for all the pish.