Post by Smiley on Jul 4, 2021 20:25:16 GMT -5
"Get the hell out of here, you bumbling drunk! You're drinking this pub dry!"
A disgruntled, slightly overweight middle aged bartender barked out with a clear scowl to his face, refusing to serve a very clearly drunk, old-looking man dressed in tattered leathers, with a grizzled, unshaven and unkempt scarred face, head covered by an old-looking, worn beret, whose shadow cast from the brim covered his eyes in the dark of night. The man kept trying to pay extra, and yet, he continued to be refused.
"Whaaaayyyyeee the FUCK! WHY!? Take the fuuuucking money and g-- Urp..!" The man keeled over a slight bit, cheeks full as he struggled to push back the alcohol that his system just tried to vomit out. That close call was the last straw, to the point where other customers promptly threw the drunk out of the doors and into the cold, smoggy streets. In the slums, it was even worse, somehow.
A bit of wandering and screaming of insults later, the drunk found himself collapsing against the nearest house, no longer able to see more than a foot in fornt of him, his legs no longer able to walk straight or hold him upright. All he could do was stay slumped against a wall, his mood quickly worsening as a flash of lucidity crossed his mind, his tortured soul once again reminding him of what he had become, and comparing it to what he once was.
A good rank in the marines, a cushy, well paying job at the headquarters, a loving wife with whom he planned to have kids with.
And now, a simple hired hand, little better than a thug, an alcoholic, poor and divorced. Completely alone. And that's what he deserved, or at least, he muttered that to himself.
That didn't stop him from lowering his head and quietly sobbing to himself, tears streaming down his face, off of his chin and onto his lap, completely dejected. And yet, this was a common ocurrence. He'd get drunk, end up in some corner or ditch and cry himself to sleep. Always the same.
A disgruntled, slightly overweight middle aged bartender barked out with a clear scowl to his face, refusing to serve a very clearly drunk, old-looking man dressed in tattered leathers, with a grizzled, unshaven and unkempt scarred face, head covered by an old-looking, worn beret, whose shadow cast from the brim covered his eyes in the dark of night. The man kept trying to pay extra, and yet, he continued to be refused.
"Whaaaayyyyeee the FUCK! WHY!? Take the fuuuucking money and g-- Urp..!" The man keeled over a slight bit, cheeks full as he struggled to push back the alcohol that his system just tried to vomit out. That close call was the last straw, to the point where other customers promptly threw the drunk out of the doors and into the cold, smoggy streets. In the slums, it was even worse, somehow.
A bit of wandering and screaming of insults later, the drunk found himself collapsing against the nearest house, no longer able to see more than a foot in fornt of him, his legs no longer able to walk straight or hold him upright. All he could do was stay slumped against a wall, his mood quickly worsening as a flash of lucidity crossed his mind, his tortured soul once again reminding him of what he had become, and comparing it to what he once was.
A good rank in the marines, a cushy, well paying job at the headquarters, a loving wife with whom he planned to have kids with.
And now, a simple hired hand, little better than a thug, an alcoholic, poor and divorced. Completely alone. And that's what he deserved, or at least, he muttered that to himself.
That didn't stop him from lowering his head and quietly sobbing to himself, tears streaming down his face, off of his chin and onto his lap, completely dejected. And yet, this was a common ocurrence. He'd get drunk, end up in some corner or ditch and cry himself to sleep. Always the same.