Si vis pacem

K. Schwartz's entrance made no particular impression on the patrons of the pub. Though his face was new to the regulars, his shining pate and vague grimace went for a dime a dozen, so that no soul was inclined to ask, "Who goes, who is this gentleman, whence does he hail," and so on. So it went in the numerous towns and establishments he had visited in years and decades past, coming and leaving with nothing to show for it but a half-empty belly and the means to drift away once more, the only security he allowed himself. But this time, K. Schwartz's favored colt had obliterated the 11/4 odds placed against him in the Oaks that afternoon, and this time, Schwartz's empty belly was like to burst from anticipation, feverishly pacing round its own mucous cavity as one would imagine some pre-ouroboric predator, consumed by his fortune and misfortune.
It is perhaps this inconspicuous appearance that allowed him to scavenge scraps of conversation in the proximate perimeter, half-balderdash but half-gems too:
	"...Doomed... some honor at least, but no..."
	"Forget that polliwog... whore... done for, get out today or tomorrow..."

Schwartz turned his attention to the one being urged to 'get out' so harshly, a spindly man some twenty-five years his junior, evidenced by the gracility of his features; his knotted brows failed to wrinkle his glassy forehead in the slightest, frown and lament as he may. K. adopted a somber expression and walked forth toward the svelte gentleman. His nails are clean, he noted. Long and clean. Like a dead filly's hooves. He approached the two, calling the younger's attention by offering the pint he had in hand.
	"Tell me," he implored, "what kind of trouble is it you're in?"
	"What's it to you?" came the reply from the man's wary companion, interrupting what would have been a lengthy confession.
The speaker feigned distraction, arrogantly letting Schwartz converse with a shoulder and one ear while he lazily settled his gaze on something or other in the distance.

K. flashed a sympathetic smile past his prey, into the nape of the other. "See, I got a bad heart, and I got all this cash", he spoke almost bashfully, "and no kin, on account of... well, no matter. Point being, I've got to help you best I can. Now tell me, son," he turned rightward, "what's got you so down on your luck?"
	"They're hunting me," he moaned, "they'll shoot me down like a dog, and my sick mother, and my wife, and my girl... all... all of them, gone. It's a damned murky thing, they've got assassins, you know? They've got... they're lurking here out, 'til it's dark enough out, and they'll..."
	"Alright," he uttered, trying to shed the irritation arising from the dullard's nonsense. The man's nerves were taking a turn for the worse while K. reflected on the situation. It occurred to him then that he truly had been blinded by hunger: from this close up--he could have breathed in the man's dust--he could almost hear the stuttering of the heart, the rising acidity of the kidney, the nervous splenic laughter choked down with thirsty gulps of an nth drink. "What's your name?" he suddenly inquired. S. Markson turned out to be the man's name, so he continued, "You know what you need, Markson? Because I know what you need."
	"I know I need a fucking breather," declared the moody third wheel, throwing down a bill to the counter and a warning glance to the both of them.
The night had outgrown its nascency. Silently grinning ear to ear, Schwartz pulled a piece of greasy iron and its feed out of his coat, setting it down on Markson's lap. He brushed the sweat off the pixilated man's temple, his belly filling with elation sweet as amrita, sweet and cruel as life itself.
"Si vis pacem, para bellum."