Terrible Things

I slumped down at the bar, leaning my elbows on the grimy surface of the counter. There were stains from the umpteen drinks that had been spilt over the years. So many that you'd almost mistake that for the counter, not realising that beneath the layer of filth, the shelf itself lay hidden. It was the scummiest hellhole this side of town, located in the slums where no one dared to go.

The locals were mere drunkards, with not a penny to their name, and not a care in the world, as long as their glass was kept full. It was degrading to see them stumble in, knowing they've probably left their families at home, wives struggling to make dinner for far too many children. They don't care, though, of course. Half of them would sell their soul for just a sip of an alcoholic drink when they returned from work, and it's probably safe to say they'd give up all of their families in an instant for a good supply of the horrid substance. They were considered the 'regulars' here, and I'm ashamed to say I'm one of them.

The bartender knew me here, and I'd be surprised if he didn't; I'm in here every day. Then again, most of the people here are so intoxicated that if I told them my name was Leroy Jenkins the third, they'd probably believe me, although they'd probably end up calling me Jim or something later.

I did like the bartender, though, he was always up for a bit of banter. He wasn't exactly elderly, but he was an older fellow. He's the kind of guy you'd expect to be a sailor. I know that sounds ridiculous, but to me, he seems like a sailor - a sea captain perhaps. He was a hardy man, despite his frail frame, his face had a hardened appearance, almost like a wooden doll. Went by the name of Tom, he did.

"Alright there, Ian?" he slurred, already wasted. He's supposed to be the supplier of the drinks, not the consumer. Not that he cares.

"Just the usual, mate,"" I smiled, trying my best to look cheerful and act polite. It usually looked more like a grimace, though. It wouldn't matter. By the end of the night, I'd be too drunk for manners - chances are I'd be the one to get into a brawl - and the others would be too drunk to care.

He passed me a pint of some clear liquid. Or at least I assumed it was supposed to be clear. It was more of a cloudy colour, but I didn't pass any remark. They claimed it was vodka, and I didn't challenge them. There was more than likely many other toxic substances mixed in with the lot. It could be potentially lethal, and no one would even bat an eyelid. That's just the way things are done round here.

I sipped it idly, ignoring the burning sensation the liquid had on the back of my throat. I was practically immune to it now, hardly noticing the unpleasant feeling.

---

I was halfway through my pint - though I admit it had been refilled several times - when I noticed something out of the ordinary. Sat at one of the filthy tables, on his own, was a young man, his peroxide blond hair obscuring his eyes and most of his face. He didn't fit the bill for the riff raff you find about here. He looked warm, friendly, and like he could maintain a coherent conversation for longer than thirty seconds. He was slightly chubby too, indicating that he couldn't be all that old. It was puppy fat, really, not the more common sight of a protruding beer gut. I decided to chance it, and speak to him.

I wandered over to him, swaying my hips as I did. Whether it was due to my own cocky nature, or the alcohol in my bloodstream, I don't know. Something told me that this was the way to do it, and so I did. I paused at his table, glancing down at the vacant seat across from him, receiving a nod of approval from him, his blond hair bouncing as he did. I flashed him a smile, and sat down, taking note of what he was drinking. It may come in handy later.

There was once a time when I would wait, making small talk, and gradually building up the conversation. Oh, yes, I could be patient once. That was a few years ago, though. Instead I leapt straight to the point, not waiting for him to get accustomed first. Well, I tried to at least. I was interrupted the moment I opened my mouth, however.

"I noticed you watching me," his thick Welsh accent rang out. He smiled, taking another swig of the amber liquid in his glass before continuing. "I know it's probably a bit quick to judge, but I think I may be able to guess your next words."

I stared at him in disbelief. No one had ever called me out on my intentions before, regardless of how obvious I made it. They just sat there and giggled, smiling sweetly as I chatted them up. Not this boy.

"So I thought I'd beat you to it. How would you feel if I asked you out for dinner?" he asked, his lips tugging up at the corners again.

I studied his face for any trace of dishonesty; anything to indicate that he was joking, but his face showed nothing but signs of sincerity.

I smiled at him, my first genuine smile in weeks. "I'd love to."