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Tales From The Empire Part 18: http://www.comicvine.com/forums/fan-fic/8/marvel-iron-age-tales-from-the-empire-part-18/734149/
The Bar With No Name
Sergei Vleck pulled himself out of a congealed puddle of his own vomit, blood and spit. His head pounded like a rhino brass band on pogo sticks hand set up residence in his head. He’d been drinking solidly, consistently since Doom had passed away. Nobody had or could stop him; it was his bar after all. Sergei crawled across the hardwood floor and pulled himself up the bar to his feet, wobbling as gravity seemed to conspire against him. He promptly vomited all across the bar before falling flat on his back with a thump.
Sergei dropped in and out of consciousness as waves of nausea pounded him. Everything hurt from blinking to breathing to thinking. He gazed up to the roof and caught a glimpse of the illegal feed channel set up in the corner. The television showed pixelated images of a riot. Sergei squinted making out that it was in the Latverian Quarter in New York. He slowly rolled over.
“YOU WILL HAND OVER ALL NEW LATVERIAN FLAGS FOR QUARANTINE! ANY RESISTANCE WILL BE DEALTH WITH!” barked a soldier as the handheld camera bobbed and swayed trying to cover the action.
“Stark you!” came the reply, followed by a bottle hitting him in the helmet. The crowd roared in approval. Then the sound was lost as dozens of Iron Soldiers opened fire with their repulsors, firing into the largely unarmed crowd. It was a slaughter! Sergei got up to his feet, nausea being replaced with anger…rage!
“This is not right!” he declared as he staggered out the back into his private living quarters. Like a ransacking zombie he threw things about looking for something, finally spotting his old army dogtags. Sergei smiled and grabbed them, inserting them into a small panel in the wall. The wall hissed, white gas flumed out as a section slid away revealing a wall of items. Sergei looked them over, nodding as the plan came together in his head.
Over the many years of running the bar, he’d acquired lots of trinkets in lieu of payment. Sometimes they were junk, sometimes they were way beyond what the owner recognised. It was these special items Sergei had collected, to make a war chest if you will. Sergei stared long and hard at the white and blue suit he’d built over the years, a suit he was going to hand down to the children he never had, and tore the sweaty filth encrusted shirt off his chest.
“DOOM IS COMING!”