One of the greatest foes that stand in the way of humanity's progress and happiness is a decision. It is one of life's unwanted gifts that you can never get a handle of. From little decisions like what to eat and what to wear to big decisions like what career to venture into; the span of decision making seems endlessly provoking.

Trust me, it's way worse in festive seasons like Christmas. From inconsequential decisions, like spending time with family or friends to critical decisions like deciding what Christmas gift you want your crush to have.

Picking the right gift was never my thing. Always ended with gifts my crushes never gave a tinker's damn about.

One funny thing about life is that the decisions will think so little about always tends to haunt our every waking moment. Some linger like the black sheep of the family.

For one, not going against my better nature; not leaving Uncle Jimmy alone on the couch for an outing with a crush. My condemnation—watching my crush in the arms of someone totally perfect.

Bad times. Worse Memories.

Four tables in two rolls; three tables were empty, not more than fifteen people. Three women looking fierce—dark lumps under their eyes; smoking and drinking with total abandonment. Hairs ruffled—like feral beings. The men looked way worse, mostly shirtless with bandannas on their necks and heads.

Red Venom wasn't disturbed. He could feel his stiletto dagger at the back of his belt, just below his red waistcoat, on the Ol'Cigga weighted in between his turtle neck and trousers; covered by his leather jacket.

The man behind the bar counter spoke calmly. "You look awfully new here." He looked different, cleaned up, and a lot better than the others in his bar. His dark brown eyes scrutinizing Kennedy. A towel hung on his shoulder. A tumbler held with his big right hand. His full dark beard had patches of white hair under his lips. Handlebar mustache lapping perfectly on the beard—like a Santa with a dark beard. The hair on his head cut in a military fashion—buzz cut with a low fade.

Kennedy shrugged casually. "Sightseeing, I guess." He pointed at a scotch bottle at the back of the bartender.

"That's the first," The Bartender remarked as he poured the scotch into a pint glass. "Not every day we see new faces in Zulucht. Zulucht is more of a get-out-if-you-can town."

"Wow, what a tour guide." Kennedy mocked, then raised his glass. "To the survivors," he ended.

"I hope you find what you are looking for," said the bartender; his thin smile spread across his face.

The Red Venom took a sip from his drink and turned around. His eyes trying to search out members of the gang. He found six men glowering at him. Three conversing at the second table to the door. One bald at the door rubbing his jaw vehemently and cracking his knuckles. Two others with hands on the table, quiet, and peering into the Red Venom eyes. The ladies seemed lost in what they were doing—getting wasted. None of the men glaring looked like a gang leader. They were just pawns: street thugs and lowlifes.

"Where are you?" Kennedy mumbled.

The Red Venom cast Phil a knowingly look, then turned back to face the bartender.

"I think you might be of help in my little—"

"Sightseeing," The bartender chimed in. His smile still stuck on his face.

Kennedy removed his wallet and drew out mint notes from it—about four thousand Roas pounds (the country's currency) in hundreds. He placed five hundred in front of the bartender.

The bartender looked at the notes on his counter. It was twice the bottle of scotch. "This smells like a lot of trouble."

"I assure you not." Kennedy downed his glass. He watched the bartender fill it again, then continued. "I am looking for a friend."

"Who might that be?" The bartender questioned with hawk-like eyes.

Kennedy placed more notes on the table before saying. "The leader of the New Zulucht Order?"

"Who is asking?" asked the bartender. "Are you a cop?" he added immediately, still surprisingly calm with a smile that never left his face.

"Do I look like a cop?" Kennedy snapped.

The bartender opened his mouth. Closed it again as his eyes found Phil. He was still standing in a solid stance; hands clasped at his back on his waist. His face was unreadable. A plain black sweater over a pair of jeans and boots. His calmness in a bar of men trying to tear his head off was terrifying. That could either mean he was naïve or he had an ace up his sleeves.

The bartender blurted out. "What's the deal with your friend?"

Kennedy spared Phil a glance as he sipped his scotch. "Not much of a talker."

The bartender nodded in understanding. His eyes still on Phil. "The New Zulucht Order is bad news." The bartender cleaned his wet hands on his shirt. "Get out while you can."

"Something tells me that you know who they are?" Kennedy drew more notes from his wallet and placed it on the counter. Making it a thousand bills on the table.

The bartender looked at the notes in front of him. He chuckled to himself. His mustache and beard moving in such a way, you think it spoke. "Are you always this generous?"

"Yes," Kennedy answered, then he took another sip from his drink. "Not usually with money." he grinned sinisterly.

"Coc is his name. That's all I am giving you." The bartender turned away from the counter. His smile lost. "Keep your money. You are no longer welcome"

A hoarse voice called out from their back. "Tony, is Mr. Butter bothering you?" Kennedy didn't bulge; sitting quietly, his hand still on his glass. It was one of the three men that were conversing at table. He walked to the right side of Kennedy, by the counter; his compatriots flanking him. All casting Kennedy a long stare of disdain.

His hair was plaited in short cornrows. He shared the same beard with Tony—without the white patches and the perfect handlebar moustache. His mustache was just a stubby grey line. The other men with him had low cuts and similar beard style, no moustache. A lot of scars on their shirtless bodies, but no visible tattoo. Grey bandanna stuck in the loop of their trousers.

The bartender shook his head sideways. "Mr. Butter was about to leave."

Mr. Butter was a derogatory name for people who were not from Zulucht. Other citizens of the state were fine with it, but the proud Orange townies considered it demeaning.

Kennedy felt angered, perturbed. Everything in him itching to pull out his Ol'Cigga on those men. But there was the no-guns challenge he had to deal with, and he knew better than to bring a fist to a gunfight.

He downed his glass quickly and shot to his feet. "Thank you, Tony. You have been quite helpful," he remarked.

Tony spared a soft nod. His charming thin smile back on his face.

Kennedy and Phil's eyes met as Kennedy strode towards the door. "Tell Coc that the Red Venom waits," Kennedy announced with his back turned.

Hush fell on the room immediately; followed seconds later by a tumult. A few got up from their seat hurriedly and made for the door. Till, it was left nine people in the room: Tony, Kennedy, Phil, the three men at the counter, the bald man by the door, a young fellow with a full afro, and one of the wasted ladies. All drawing weapons; left only Kennedy, Tony, and the man with the cornrows.

The young lad with the afro and the wasted lady had their Uzi on Phil. Phil's pistol in his right hand; pointed at no one. Two of the three men by the counter also had Uzis, all aimed at the Red Venom.

Kennedy burst into loud maddening laughter. Stopped abruptly. "So how are we going to play this?" he demanded from no one in particular.

Phil stood still. His gun in his hand. Waiting patiently for a signal of any sort.

"What?" asked the man with the cornrows; thrown back by Kennedy's question.

"I asked how are we going to play this?" Kennedy repeated confidently; enunciating each word slowly.

"Do you have a death wish?" The man with the cornrows demanded in a loud tone. He pulled out his pistol wedged between the waistline of his trousers and underwear. He shot the old ceiling twice, then aimed his gun back at Kennedy. Smiling broadly as the chants of admiration from his cohorts filled the room.

Kennedy looked at the gun in the scarred hand of the leader. He smirked as he turned to look at Phil for a minute.

"I mean you no trouble. I come with a business proposition for the leader," Kennedy replied undauntedly. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"You must be out—"

"Jones, it is alright. Mr. Red Venom is our guest," Tony, the bartender cut in. Jones grumbled, looking eager to shoot. He let out a few curses as he lowered his pistol. The others followed a similar trend.

Tony turned to Kennedy. Please have a seat."

Kennedy wore a sly smile. "Let me guess, you are Coc," he remarked as he drew a seat nearby. Tony walked towards the table in front of Kennedy.

"Yes, I am," Tony affirmed before taking his seat. "You remain defiant even in the face of sure death?"

"I try to be," said Kennedy, sounding as modest as he could ever be. "Besides, there is no point fearing the inevitable. We all get to die someday. That is the only surety we have in this cursed world." His fingers tapped on the table as he stared Tony in the eye. He said a few inaudible prayers for a greater resolve. A wrong move on his path and he was done.

"Really?" Tony raised his right brow. "What if death comes knocking at your door this very second?"

Kennedy rested on the seatback of the wooden chair in the bar. "I find this discussion unfitting for new friends," he remarked; still with a sly smile.

"You are right," Tony concurred. "What do you have in mind?"

"Let me ask you a question?" Kennedy rested his hand on the table, still peering into Tony's eyes. "What do you think about excess funding, access to top weapons, and free will?"

"Sounds good to me. What's the catch?"

"I have big plans and a very rich client." Red Venom turned to look at Jones. "I need forward thinkers, not brutes."

"You don't strike me as a don." Tony enunciated 'the don'.

"Who said anything about a mafia?" Kennedy relaxed back on his chair. "DD A MILLION is one of my sponsors."

"I thought as much," Jones chimed in. The room was thrown into loud chattering. All trying to outspeak the other. Chorusing songs of curses, swearing, and declarations of war.

"Will you let me finish?" Kennedy thundered. His voice harsh and sharp—leaving chills. The room quietened. "I am sure the last thing you need is to pick a war with a mafia don." Red Venom turned to face the men.

"We are not scared of those Orange townies. Arrogant Swine," Jones uttered triumphantly. His statement was met with praise from his cohorts. The bald man spat vehemently on the floor as they cheered.

"I respect your courage. I really do. But, why pick a war with a cost far more than the gain?" Kennedy suggested. "Every forward thinker knows that war is bad for business." he turned to look at Tony.

Tony nodded approvingly at Kennedy. His thin smile broader.

"We can do great things together. We can change this town." Kennedy stood up. He stretched out his hand. "What do you say to an alliance?"

Tony looked at his friends for a moment. Most shaking their head in displeasure. The lady showed no reaction. Her eyes still on Phil like a woman possessed. Tony turned back to look at Kennedy. Kennedy's face too was without a visible reaction. His hand still outstretched.

Tony shook the Red Venom's hand before saying, "I need time to think about your proposal. But, you can tell DD A MILLION that we won't be giving him any more trouble."