The bar was half filled with the inebriated and semi naked denizens of the back water town. It was Friday night and they had no place better to be.

The broken juke box in the corner played "The Seeker" by The Who out of one working speaker while people attempted the mingling dance to make sure they didn't suffer the indignity of leaving alone on a Friday.

Solitude wasn't a problem for the square shouldered man with a chin carved out of granite sitting alone at the bar with a drink in one hand and a half smoked cigarette in the other.

The vodka was cold and scratched at his throat as he choked down the remnants of his third glass.

His name is Joseph Stone.

The bar was stifling with a clinging humidity you could carve with a rolling pin. Yet Stone sat there with his trademark dark grey bomber jacket with brown hooded top underneath, the hood resting on his back like a flaccid cape. His Levi jeans were in need of a rinse and his well worn Sketchers could do with a trip to good will, he didn't care. He never cared.

The people populating the bar either side of him cast wary glances in his direction. In particular towards the odd tattoo on the right side of his face. It was an almost parenthetical shaped design that started near the outer corner of his right eye and spread out above his eye brow and half an inch below his eye on his cheek. The pattern was an almost drunken infusion of Aztec and Christian symbology.

He could feel their eyes on him, wondering what to make of this stranger in their routine. Stone knew it was only a matter of time before the predictable happened.

"What the fuck is that thing on your face?" came the very loud question from a man with a build akin to a dock worker.

Stone ignored him and gestured to the barman for another glass of vodka, the barman this time rather than serving him with an easy smile was looking rather sheepishly at the burly man now standing behind Stone.

"I asked you a question you fucking freak"

Stone took a deep breath and spoke in an even tone "I heard you the first time"

The man stepped forward; he was so close that Stone could feel his rancid breath on his neck. The smell was like come god awful mix of whiskey and Kentucky Fried Chicken. "Too good to answer me eh?" he said with a slightly slurred voice "Well in case you didn't know, I'm the fucking king as far as this bar is concerned and when I asked a question you fucking answer, aint that right Tommy?"

The barman almost jumped at being asked a question, "Yeah, whatever you say Frank" he replied his voice trembling with fear.

Stone looked up past the Tommy the Bartender at the reflection of Frank. He was wearing a black best top that was too small and stretched out over his barrel chest and beer developed stomach. His tree trunk like arms were covered in faded tattoos that probably meant something at some point but now just looked like off colour green bruises. His head was shaved close and he had a black goatee that framed a yellow toothed smile. He looked like a cliché but he also looked like a granite hard mother fucker.

"Seeing as your new here I'll let it slide" he said with a sarcastic smile as he looked around at his cronies, "Yeah I'll let it slide, if you get off your stool and bow in front of the King"

"Yeah King Frank" someone drunkenly called out.

Stone ignored the wave of laughter and picked up his glass of Vodka and took a mouthful of the cold burning liquid. The laughter soon began to fade when it became apparent that this man was not about to be intimidated. Franks sickly smile soon became a grimace of annoyance.

"Did you fucking hear me fag" he exclaimed as he dropped a ham sized hand on Stones shoulder.

Stone closed his eyes and took a deep breath as an image flashed through his mind. Stone could see a young girl screaming out in agony while the naked form of Frank smashed his fist into her delicate face. He flipped her bent over on a dirty kitchen counter and stepped up to between her legs. Her cries screamed though Stone's mind as he pushed the images aside.

Stone's voice cracked a little as he spoke "She was thirteen"

Frank looked at him bemused "What the fuck you say?"

Stone didn't answer; he kicked the bottom of his stool hard. The wooden perch buried itself into Frank's groin. He doubled over trying to suck back in the air that had been driven out of his body by such a vicious shot to his genitals. Before he could even think about recovering Stone had spun on his heel and hammered a right handed uppercut to his face. Frank took three steps back but didn't go down.

"You fucking cunt" he exclaimed breathlessly.

Stone reached into his jacked and pulled out a silver plated handgun. It was a beautiful almost ornamental looking thing, an ornate carving of a Celtic style hammer was etched into the maroon mahogany handle. The light in the bar was intensified off the sheen of the gun slide. On one face of the slide in microscopic detail was carved the entire book of revelation from the Christian bible, while on the other carved with equal precision and care were the lyrics to "Highway to Hell" by ACDC.

Frank stopped and stared at the gun, fear would have taken a hold of him if this was the first time a gun had been pointed at him. Instead he was going to reach for a 9mm berretta he had concealed in the back of his jeans. If he was going out he was taking the tattooed freak with him.

Stone pulled back the hammer of his ornate gun. He pointed the gun square at Frank's robust chest and gripped the bottom of the clenched fist holding the weapon to study his aim. To the surprise of the people in the bar the intricate tattoo on his face flared with a piercing blue light for only a second and then was gone. When it faded Stone spoke in a composed tone "She was thirteen years old and her name was Sophie you son of a bitch".

Franks arm twitched a centimetre towards his gun before he was sent sprawling. His strangely tattooed advisory hammered two rounds into his chest. Frank dropped to his knee's instantly his life pouring from the gaping wounds, before he could register he was about to die a third bullet clawed through his forehead and exploded out the other side in a torrent of blood and brain matter.

The bar fell silent.

Stone put the gun back in his jacket and kicked the stool he was sitting on into an upright position. The stool landed and he sat all in one fluid almost ballet like motion.

"Tommy" he said to the now pale bartender "Another vodka please"

His name is Joseph Stone.