// First chapter, completed.
Another night of isolated destitution and a nefariously appropriate yearning for alcohol, how quaint. The now-obsolete holy texts that retained themselves in the back of his mind held no comely warmth for him to turn to tonight. Even if they did, it wouldn't matter. He was standing outside of the ineffably tattered and pungently repulsive bar already, there was no going back. Besides, he ditched his car ten miles down the road.
For reasons he could not fathom, Idris lost all of his ability to feel. His world-renowned hard-ass attitude and loving tenderness at home was now replaced with nothing but complete apathy. All that seemed to matter was finding a surefire way to numb his body; all he ever looked forward to was a way to clear his mind at a moment's notice. He saw nothing wrong with it, it wasn't like he wasn't going to die anyway. Speeding up the process hardly ranked in the grand scheme of things.
Nothing could be heard. Among the police sirens, the boisterous men tumbling down to the ground and yelling in their drunken stupors, the bar's jukebox, the wind, and the arguing couples off into the distance, Idris heard nothing. His senses were clouded, his arms looked like snakes. His long, black hair felt like worms collocating together atop his head – eating away at his flesh. He forgot his name, he couldn't even remember what his reflection looked like. Not that it even mattered, of course.
An exasperated sigh escaped his dry mouth, and the wooden door of dark oak swung open to reveal a plethora of old men and young women, all presumably drunk. He stepped inside, feeling as if he was floating. Completely disassociated. The movement surrounding him all seemed to blur together, nothing felt real. He wasn't real.
Approaching the bar's counter, he stared blankly at the tender's face. "What'll you have?" the tender politely inquired.
Idris heaved a sigh, speaking in his typical monotonous fashion. "Uh...Jack in Pepsi," he stated dryly.
"Coming right up. That'll be , sir."
Idris didn't hear him. He was preoccupied with the masterpiece that was the wall of alcoholic beverages behind the bartender. There must have been hundreds if not thousands of options to choose from; no doubt that if you were looking to drink, this was the place. Any poison you could ever think of was right there, on that wall. It was mesmerizing.
In fact, this entire place was a marvel in and of itself. His eyes suddenly opened widely, the heat surrounding him suddenly enveloping his cold body in a cyclonic whirlwind. Dazed and confused, his breathing intensified and his heart rate increased exponentially, leaving him in a dizzy state of hyperventilation and fear. Everything was suddenly caving in on him, everyone was trying to get to him, /everything/ was real and wanted desperately to harm him – and it was /quite/ evident by the ringing in his ears. Why was he even there? How'd he get there? He couldn't remember. His heavy breathing continued, it was all so real, so intense...
He was saved by the sound of the glass on the wooden counter in front of him. The stark tune stabbed his brain, jabbing ferociously at his grey matter so much to the point where the pain suppressed everything else. He was floating aimlessly again, and he had a headache now...not like he could feel that, though.
The bartender walked over to the woman sitting to Idris's left, obviously having a difficult time as she persisted that she was perfectly capable of having another shot of Jager. This, of course, was after two entire pitchers of beer and several solo cups of Smirnoff, along with three Jager shots already. His gentle and gregarious tone of voice was gradually devolving to elucidate his frustration. There was something about his semi-invective language that told you this was the result of weeks (maybe months) of pent-up frustration.
The woman appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She let her black spaghetti-strap dress press comfortably against her tanned, white skin. Her short, brown hair was a mess, and her composure wasn't exactly welcoming. Her voice, for whatever reason, annoyed Idris immensely, as well as the bartender from the looks of it. It was her sharp tone and snide attitude, one would think. Whatever.
Idris tuned them out, divulging his attention to the liquid haven that sat patiently before him. "I don't even like whiskey," he muttered as he proceeded to chug it. The mixture of carbonation and alcohol tickled his neck, warming his body. He sighed as he lightly placed the glass back into its original spot, peering through it after laying his head down atop his folded arms. He let out yet another exasperated sigh, and closed his eyes for a few seconds.
"Who the fucking hell do you think you are?!" the woman to his left snapped, startling him and capturing the attention of a few surrounding bar-goers. The bartender clenched his fists and took a long, deep breath.
"Ma'am, please leave," he retaliated in an obviously feigned professional tone of voice.
"Fuck that! I want another drink, you stupid bartender!" she said sweetly. "What's the problem, huh? Your dick too small or some shit?" She immediately followed her kind words with an annoyingly snide laugh.
The bartender took another long, deep breath before crouching down behind the counter to retrieve a landline phone. He turned away for a short moment to dial a few numbers, turning around to face the woman with a cold stare and a hardened expression stricken upon his face. The woman spat in his general direction in an undeniably mature manner.
"Yeah, I got a lady here. Drunk. Violent. Need to get her out, ASAP," he spoke indignantly. The woman didn't seem to comprehend what he said, only spat some more and maniacally laughed. "Thanks," he concluded his call, hanging the phone back up beneath the counter.
After a few more minutes of inane squeals and disturbingly yellow expurgations of saliva, the woman was frightened to find a few police officers standing directly behind her. One had a baton, another outfitted with a pair of handcuffs, and the last one standing intimidatingly with a stern facial expression. The latter spoke first. "We're here to take you home, ma'am. I'd suggest that you cooperate, things would move along much nicer, I think."
The woman's fiery inebriation seemed to be quickly replaced with a sober discomfort, and rightly so. These guys were giants, capable of eradicating civil, disorderly conduct just by existing. You'd be a fool to mess with them.
"Oh...o-of course! I'm sorry, I'll...yeah sure, let's go...," she tremulously responded.
And just like that, she was gone.
The bartender made his way back over to Idris, taking notice of his empty glass. "Sorry you had to sit right next to that. We get a lot of crazies around here, I surprise myself every time I come into work by not decking one of 'em in the face, y'know?" He sighed, checking his digital watch. "Oh, and it's not even nine yet. Fan-fuckin'-tastic."
Idris said nothing. Instead, he gave a weak smile to the bartender along with an assuaging nod. The bartender took another long, deep breath before speaking up again. "Oh, right -- sorry. Want another glass, sir?" Idris nodded with his eyes closed and his muscles gradually easing from their previous tension.
Of course he wanted another drink, why else would he be here?
