Marty Grissom yanked the rag across the sticky bar counter, each swipe revealing another cigarette burn in the ancient wood. He twisted his neck until it cracked, then adjusted his unnecessary brace.
"They're listening through the ice machine," he muttered, eyeing the humming appliance in the corner. "Three years since I replaced the filter, and it's still making ice. That ain't natural."
The Rusty Tap stood empty except for Marty, the overhead lights dimmed to hide the floor's mysterious stains. The neon Miller sign in the window flickered like a dying firefly, casting spasms of blue light across the room. Chairs perched upside down on tabletops like sleeping bats.
He flipped open the register, counting the day's take for the third time. The pile of twenties had somehow shrunk since the second count.
"Seventy-eight dollars." Marty slammed the drawer shut. "Barely covers the electric."
The stack of unpaid bills by the register wobbled in the draft. The top envelope—stamped with FINAL NOTICE in accusatory red—slid to the floor. Marty kicked it under the bar.
"Not tonight, you don't," he said to the envelope. "Tonight we're pretending everything's fine."
He shuffled toward the security panel, punching in the code he'd memorized but never updated. The panel's green light had burned out in 2018, the alarm itself probably disconnected long before that. Still, the routine comforted him.
The jukebox squatted in the corner—a vintage Wurlitzer with chrome trim and a retrofitted touchscreen. Marty approached it with the wariness of a man confronting an unpredictable relative at Thanksgiving dinner.
"Goodnight, Stacy," he said, reaching for the power button. "Don't give me any trouble tonight. I'm too sober for your nonsense."
The jukebox lights suddenly flared to life, pulsing red and blue. The opening riff of George Thorogood's "Bad to the Bone" blasted through the speakers, vibrating the floorboards.
"Son of a—" Marty smacked the side of the machine. "I didn't even touch you yet!"
He jabbed the volume knob, twisting it counterclockwise. The music grew louder.
"Real mature, Stacy. Cut it out." He stabbed at the touch screen, trying to select a different song—any different song. The screen registered his touch but ignored his selection, cycling back to Thorogood.
Marty dropped to his knees, fumbling behind the jukebox for the power cord. His fingers closed around it, and he yanked it from the wall socket.
The music continued.
"That's impossible." He stared at the unplugged cord in his hand, then at the still-lit jukebox. "How are you doing that?"
Thorogood's gravelly voice answered: Baaad to the bone.
"Fine." Marty shoved the plug back into the wall. "You wanna dance? Let's dance."
He jabbed at the menu screen, selecting a syrupy Frank Sinatra ballad—Stacy's most hated tune according to her usual response of skipping it within seconds.
The screen flickered, and Thorogood's gravelly voice returned, now at paint-peeling volume.
"Dammit, Stacy!" Marty glanced around the empty bar, suddenly self-conscious about shouting at an inanimate object. He lowered his voice. "Someone's going to call the cops."
He slumped onto a barstool facing the jukebox, loosening his neck brace. "Look, I know we've had our differences. That time I threatened to replace you with a Spotify account? I didn't mean it."
The music throttled down a few decibels.
"Remember when I defended you against Bud Lawrence? Guy wanted to bash your screen in with a pool cue because you wouldn't play 'Sweet Caroline.' I stopped him." Marty leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I've always had your back."
The song switched mid-chorus to "Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones.
"That's progress." Marty nodded. "Now how about we compromise? You play something quiet, and I'll clean your display tomorrow. That fingerprint smudge from Devon's nacho cheese incident? Gone."
The jukebox dimmed slightly.
"And I'll move you away from the bathroom door. Premium spot by the dart board—better feng shui, no splash zone."
Stacy switched tracks to "Under Pressure."
"Very funny." Marty stood, bones cracking. "Alright, we're done negotiating."
He rummaged through the cluttered drawer beneath the register, extracting a yellow Post-it pad and a pen that left more ink on his fingers than the paper. Three previously written notes fluttered out:
FIX YOUR ATTITUDE OR MEET MY SLEDGEHAMMER
PLAY NICKELBACK AGAIN AND I'M SELLING YOU FOR PARTS
THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING (UNTIL NEXT TIME)
Marty scrawled a new threat with dramatic flourish: PLAY NICE OR GET UNPLUGGED PERMANENTLY. He slapped it onto Stacy's display panel, covering part of the touchscreen.
"There. Now we understand each other."
He collected his keys from the hook by the door, their jangling swallowed by Freddie Mercury's soaring vocals. The bass rattled empty bottles behind the bar.
Then, mid-note, silence crashed down.
"Finally," Marty muttered, triumphant. "Knew you'd see reason."
The lights dimmed, and Stacy's display glowed eerily in the darkened room. The mechanical click of her internal workings was the only sound until the opening notes of The Doors' "The End" oozed through the speakers.
Marty froze, keys hovering at the lock.
"Not funny, Stacy."
Jim Morrison's haunting voice filled the bar: This is the end, my only friend, the end...
"Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean you need to be dramatic." Marty flicked off the last light and stepped outside, locking the door behind him.
Through the window, he could see Stacy's display pulsing in rhythm to the apocalyptic lyrics. For a split second, he could have sworn the Post-it note had moved slightly, as if pushed aside by an invisible finger.
Marty hunched his shoulders against the night air and hurried toward his truck, the shadow of the neon sign falling across his face like a scar.
The song followed him into the parking lot, its mournful melody seeping through the cracks in the old building's walls.
This is the end...