The Clovermoyd & the Machete Man

In a desert far away from where you live, stands my bar, a humble establishment named the Clovermoyd. It’s never gets crowded in here but I do serve many unhappy or confused travelers. I don’t care who ever the person is as long as they don’t cause trouble, this is a bar of peace and tranquility. It is also the only place when man can see the possible only virgin Mary descendant, the Clovermoyd. The Clovermoyd to me seems like a mystical figure and is my most frequent customer. She is usually around when a weary traveler appears uncertain about what he is doing, which this bar receives many of. She is a magnanimous figure who will speak to the traveler who seems in distress and put him back on the right path at the end of his drink. One of my favourite patients was the man who entered my bar with a machete; as I said I’d rather not serve customer out to cause trouble.

“You’re not out to cause trouble with that are you sir?” I asked while pointing at the machete the man had laid out in front of him on my bar. “Relax, just give me your finest,” he answered. Already I found him rude, but from his voice I could tell he was in distress, perhaps a frighten person that tries to be tough looking by holding a machete. I knew without a doubt that this was a perfect patient for the Clovermoyd, as despite not knowing how or why she does it, I’ve gotten use to her arrival at moments like these. The Clovermoyd entered the bar and sauntered her way next to the machete man.

As usual, she asked for the same drink as the troubled man, so I served her my ‘finest’ just like the machete man had asked for. The Clovermoyd started to talk to the machete man, who at first acted inviolable to her wanting to be ignored. She did not stand down. “Where have you come from my son?” she asks. “None of your god damn business!” “Why aren’t you there now my son?” she tried again, “Shut up, and stop calling me that.” At first she seemed to be going nowhere but I knew her ways, the man would have to give in at some point. The machete man started to clench his sword threatening to hurt the Clovermoyd, yet she did not stop, and he would not hurt her. “You don’t have to carry that, you can defeat me by telling me who you are?” questions like these lowered the machete man’s anger. His hand was no longer reaching his machete, as Clovermoyd continued to mollify him. Eventually, and thankfully he started to cry, the Clovermoyd had done it again. For a long time the man came back to his senses and was no longer distressed. In fact the moment he left my bar, the machete was left behind. The Clovermoyd asked me to hide it somewhere safe in the back. Never have I been in a place other than my own bar where such an sincerity is present.