[ WP ] A man finally discovers his superpower ... well into his 80 's .

`` It's just that half of all them gals down there are just bitches, ripe bitches,'' some young white punk with greasy cornrows said as he lifted up his glass of vodka. `` This one be for the bitches.'' 
 
 The crew of young high school dropouts lifted their glasses and banged them together. The smell of cigarettes and Doritos polluted the bar as they simultaneously exhaled after slamming their empty glasses on the table obnoxiously hard. For the next hour and half they energetically went through a myriad of conversation topics -- porn, ex-girlfriends, heroine, cars, dead friends, and alcohol. Their banter slowly descended into a madness of laughter, shot after shot. Suddenly they were hushed. 
 
 An elderly man opened the bar door. A white light from the street temporarily blinded the table of boys. The man pathetically shuffled over to the counter. He wore a worn-out plaid jacket and a pair of corduroy pants. Lightly tapping the table with his fingers, a husky bartender leaned over. 
 
 `` Need help, friend?'' the bartender said, keeping an eye on the group of kids who were now suspiciously looking at the old man. 
 
 `` Yeah,'' the old man said. `` Just a shot of scotch for now. Actually I'll do two right now.'' 
 
 `` Sure thing.'' 
 
 The old man sighed as he looked at his watch. It was a habit. He was n't going anywhere later. He had no meeting to go to, no one to see, no job, no curfew. He thought sometimes that if the hand struck twelve, he would die. It was a habit though. 
 
 `` Hey hey how ya doin there sucker?'' the kid with cornrows said, while taking a seat on the vinyl chair at the bar next to the old man. 
 
 The old man glared over at him. For some reason he knew he would get dragged into some joke of a conversation with one of those kids. 
 
 `` I do n't know, sucker.'' the old man said while the bartender slid two shots of scotch in front of him. 
 
 `` Course you do, you just think I'm being some sharp-ass punk for doing this.'' 
 
 `` So?'' the old man lifted a shot to his mouth a poured it down. `` Got any reason for talking to me?'' 
 
 `` Yeah, yeah I do sucker. You been in war?'' 
 
 `` Sure.'' 
 
 `` Then you know what --'' 
 
 `` What it's like to have a gun pointed at me?'' 
 
 The old man noticed a small silver handgun concealed under the kid's grey sweatshirt. 
 
 `` How much fuckin' dope you got?'' 
 
 `` Doe and dope are two different things.'' 
 
 `` H'much doe then?'' 
 
 `` About a hundred,'' the old man said, lifting the second glass up to his lips. 
 
 `` I want it,'' the kid said, tensing his index finger on the trigger. `` Gim me.'' 
 
 The kid was sweating at this point. He was more distraught than the man. 
 
 `` Okay,'' the old man said while the scotch was lifted up to his mouth. `` Let me finish.'' 
 
 `` Finish the fuckin' drink grampy.'' 
 
 The old man lifted the empty glass from his mouth and threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall. 
 
 `` No, I mean finish this.'' 
 
 Suddenly a burst of white fire consumed the bar. The wooden pillars gave way and a cloud of dust arose while the building collapsed. It was all rubble now. Bodies lay across the ground. The kid with the cornrows collapsed, bricks crushing his legs, his face covered in a pale coating of dust. The old man shuffled to him and showed him his watch. The hand struck twelve. 
 
 `` Okay,'' the old man said while glancing at his watch. `` Time for you to die.''
