Blogtober 2023
To call the Twelve-Point Tavern a dive bar embellished the reality of its depressing seediness to absurd hyperbole. It was a steel shack on the edge of the deer woods frequented by some of the most hopeless drunks in the county.
Even the collection of taxidermied deer heads on the wall looked mangy and bedraggled, a perfect representation of the tavern’s clientele.
Three doomed souls sat hunched at the end of the bar the morning that Clarkton and Murphy dropped by to investigate. The lights over the tables along the walls were off, making the tavern look like a cave.
The bartender was the owner, Brandon Phillips, a huge man with a bald head and bushy ZZ Top-wannabe beard. He didn’t know Clarkton, but Murphy had been in several times to arrest some of his regulars.
“Deputy,” Phillips said. “Who are you here for?”
“Virgil Tippen, but we know where he is,” Murphy said.
“Where might that be?”
“The morgue. When did you see him last?”
“Last Friday,” Phillips said. “He came in, paid his tab and left.”
“Did anything about his behavior seem strange?” Murphy asked.
“Yeah, he was sober,” Phillips replied. “Didn’t even ask for a drink.”
“Did he say anything else?” Clarkton inquired.
“Yeah, he told everyone to stay out of the woods after dark,” Phillips said with a laugh. “All these bums live in shacks in the woods, and I’m not letting them stay here.”
“You should heed his warning,” came a voice from the dark.
Photo credit Adobe Stock #602457146
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