The Bully Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Deal

Joe stands frozen as the bartender calmly claims the desk chair, a glint in his eye—predatory, knowing. Joe’s heart pounds. He already knows why the man is here.

“So… you can really do it?” Joe’s voice is raw.

“Do what?” The bartender’s smile is thin, his eyes flat as slate.

Joe swallows. “You made them like me.”

The bartender nods. “I did. But you need to ask for what you want.”

Joe hesitates, fists clenching at his sides. “You made them worship me.”

“‘Worship’ isn’t quite it,” the bartender replies, gaze sharpening. “You want more than that—don’t you?”

Joe can barely say it, but the words tumble out: “Yes. I want them to worship me. I need them to know I’m superior.”

“Say it,” the bartender urges, his voice low—hungry.

Joe turns to the window, staring at the night. “I want them to worship me. I want their reverence.”

“Revereor,” the bartender whispers, voice electric. “Is that what you want?”

Joe nods. “Yes.”

The temperature drops. The air congeals, thick and heavy, as if the room itself is listening. Joe shivers. The overhead light flickers. The bartender’s face looks ancient, etched with lines deep as old wounds, eyes shadowed with secrets. He’s calm, but not comforting—his presence is a cold warning.

Joe drops his head into his hands, trembling. He wants to ask who the bartender really is, but the question sticks in his throat. When he looks up—the chair is empty.

A whisper from the shadows: “What do you think I am?”

Joe jumps. “A ghost?”

The air thickens, shadows stretching along the walls. The bartender’s form shifts, edges blurring, as if he’s both there and not.

“Try again,” he rasps.

Joe’s mind raced, and dread slithered through him. The next guess hovered on the tip of his tongue, but instead of speaking, he felt an urge to escape the deal.

Joe lunges for the door. It won’t budge. The knob burns his palm—hot, then icy. He slams a fist on the frame. No answer. He whirls to the window—no parking lot outside, only a roiling, grayish fog, dense and unnatural, pressing up to the glass.

He reaches out, hand trembling—and falls through.

He tumbles into fog, thick as memory, dense as shame. The air tastes of chalk and old sweat, the scent of locker rooms and playgrounds. Shapes move within the mist—faint, child-sized shadows circling, faces with blurred features, eyes always watching but never meeting his. Laughter echoes—sharp, cruel, fragments of voices from decades ago.

The ground beneath his feet shifts with every step: sometimes soft grass, sometimes gravel that cuts. Sometimes there’s no ground at all, just a sense of falling. He tries to call out—his voice is muffled, swallowed by the fog. The air pulses with secrets, the kind kids keep to survive. Whispers hiss through the haze: his name, his old nicknames, the jeers he can’t forget.

Up above, a sliver of cold light breaks through. The mist parts and the bartender emerges, his outline unnaturally crisp, untouched by the gloom. He grins, teeth too white, too many. “Welcome to my world.”

Joe’s fear claws at him, but the fog responds to his thoughts. The more certain he feels, the more the mist thins, the shadows shrinking back. He spots a jagged window in the distance, light pouring through.

He steps toward it—each stride harder than the last—and pushes through. He’s back in the hotel room. The bartender is there, waiting, face unreadable.

“Before you say it, no, I am not a demon,” the bartender interjected, his expression shifting slightly. “I am a warlock.”

 “I’ve been here before. I come when I’m needed. You’re not the first to want this.” He added.

Joe’s heart pounds.

The bartender bows, mock-formal. “I am Reveror, granter of worship.”

Joe’s dread deepens. Warlock, not demon—but the difference feels razor-thin. Perhaps he had reason to feel relieved. But that relief was fleeting; the implications loomed heavy.

“What does it cost?” Joe croaks.

The bartender sits on nothing, fog swirling around him. “You do me a service, inviting me to right old wrongs. Especially bullying. But there’s always a price. Sometimes you’ll wish you’d never asked.”

“Yesterday, only you and your friend saw me,” the bartender says, his voice echoing from the fog. “Now you decide: am I good or evil? Doesn’t matter to me. The price is yours alone.”

Joe’s resolve hardens. This feels like justice. Why not take what he’s owed?

“No hints from me,” the bartender murmurs.

Joe straightens. “I won’t hurt anyone undeserving.”

The bartender’s eyes glitter. “The price you ask? Lets put it this way, once you start this, you won’t control where it ends. Can you live with that?”

Joe’s mind flashes with the faces of those who tormented him, their laughter ringing in his skull. He wants payback more than anything.

“Let’s do it,” he whispers.

“Be at the banquet tonight. I’ll handle the rest.” Said the bartender.

Joe nods, barely breathing. The bartender melts into the shadows. The room is silent.

A cold certainty settles into Joe’s bones. There’s no turning back.