Yes, it was good to be back.

Nikolai stood at the bar with his back to the bar tender. Dressed in jeans, turtleneck, and leather jacket and wearing his gold Rolex Oyster he surveyed the scene at the Bucket of Blood. He remembered coming here with his grandfather as a child… remembering his anticipation of receiving a demi-glass of Coke from the bar tender while his grandfather downed his regular two boilermakers.

Now he was back for the first time since he left home at the age of eighteen to serve his country. He was retired now, at the tender age of thirty-eight, with enough money in the bank and investments that he really had no need to worry about employment.

Turning around towards the bar tender, he sipped his scotch, watching the smoke from his cigarette in the ashtray swirl and reach for the ceiling.

From his left he heard a typical argument between two patrons, one a Polish fellow about six four and a smaller Russian fellow about five eight. He could tell their ethnicity from the curses they were hurtling at each other. As often happened, a scuffle started…the two men pushing and shoving each other. As the scuffle headed toward the door Nikolai followed, watching in amusement as the two went out the door, rolled down the steps in each other’s grasp, ending up across the narrow street in someone’s flower garden…rolling on the ground and pummeling each other.

Nope, he thought, not much has changed.