The Toad Creek was quiet but maybe it would pick up. The bartender was a man in his early 20s; he looked like a college student the way he was studying and talking on the phone, occasionally going to the trouble of serving one of the bar's five customers a cheap beer or drink.

There were three rough looking types from over the foundry drinking after work beers. Grease and dirt covered their faces; the result of a hard day's worth of doing whatever these types do these days to gather a little coin, probably work at a lumber mill or something. Exterminate the fucking brutes.

Dennis drank one beer before deciding he'd had enough for the night. Mark was glad to hear it: Dennis would be in better working condition tomorrow than he was going to be when they were supposed to measure rooms and start tearing stuff out. The Improper was only a mile away, no big walk. Dennis covered his glass with a goodbye napkin and walked out the door. The door swung shut, Mark ordered another Bourbon Presby and began to brood.

He thought about calling Maureen but as usual he was thinking about Lenny.

MIDNIGHT

The brighter part of the bar was still empty. He was drunk, the blue collars were drunk and an old, fat (but strong looking and red faced) farmer had come in and sat down next to him. He was drinking glass after glass of cheap tap beer, always ordering a Presby for Mark when he ordered himself a beer. Mark was trying his full blown alcoholic best to keep up with the guy but the guy was still a drink ahead of him. No matter how hard Mark drank.

The guy muttered to himself in a Parkinson's fit every once in a while; Mark sat there tipping his bourbon glass to and fro. He balanced it with his index finger before he let it go, watching it crash to the bar. It went down in slo mo, as if gravity was lessened around here. The tip of the glass broke off upon contact, causing the bartender to look up from his phone conversation.

Mark looked at him-- in the eyes. That's key he learned during that 62 day bender he went on after Lenny's death; you gotta look the bartender straight in the eyes, especially when the barkeeper knows that you had one or twenty too many. Like the ref in a boxing mismatch, the barkeep's looking for some kind of response in the chump fighter's eyes. You got to have some life left in those eyes. You got to have some life left in those eyes or the fun's over for the night. "You guy's got a clock in here?" Davidson asked.

The bartender ignored him, wiping up the liquor that ran across the bar.

"Sorry," Mark repeated, "you guys got a clock in here?"

The condescending bastard was doing his best to ignore him. A smart ass smirk was written all over his face. This guy didn't feel like putting up with any sloppy burnt out drunks tonight. The three blue collars were eyeing him up from across the bar, like they were thinking about rolling him in the alley. It was up to the old muttering farmer; he was the only fight judge left that was even going to think about letting this one continue.

"Excuse me," Mark said, addressing the old man; careful drunken courtesy spilled from his lips. "Excuse me buddy, you know what time it is?" Liquor's beautiful brain effect had kicked in again.

(you gotta understand barkeep, I have evil dreams that tell me I am an evil person. you gotta understand I'm getting too scared to sleep, my dreams tell me things. just let me sit here, the shit won't get too deep; I'll be good. I gotta do some thinkin'; let me stay, let me stay and do some thinking and drinking; I just wanna sit here and think and drink. I promise I'll be no more trouble)

"Sir, do you know what time it is?"

That must have been the funniest question the guy had heard in a long time because the guy looked up from his beer and smiled the most beatific smile Mark had ever seen. Then the guy broke into a loud Germanic celebratory song.

While singing, the old man began showing off his SteamMachine Mouse watch; it was an old rusting thing. He stopped singing; "My boy, my boy," the old farmer said, "this watch stopped the day my sweetheart died. It's a piece of junk, I won it at a movie theater in the 40s; my beautiful wife died in her 20s and I never remarried. It's a piece of junk really, it helps me remember better times. I don't remember the beginning of this conversation. I don't remember picnics with my baby. Age is robbing me of all my memories. I only have a future and the present, which I quickly forget ... you know what I mean?"

"Yeah. "

This was a touching moment, the kind of moment that screamed out for a toast- It was time for a Benedictine & Brandy (tm) toast.

"A round for the house!" Davidson screamed, "some ambrosia even for the brutes across the bar! Barkeep, we need some B&B!"

He leaped off his stool like a celebratory madman.

"Sorry, man, can't serve you; you've been too fucked up to drive for awhile now; now you're just too fucked up. Okay?"

"Okay, yeah okay," Mark said, looking over at the old man who was now crying, his face bright red as were his bloodshot crying eyes.

And the moment of drunken clarity revealed itself at last:

(welcome back Mark. Welcome home. He listened to the congregation's choir singing ancient chant. It came from inside him. A chill crawled up his spine)

"Hey, man, you think I'm too fucked up? They're thinking about stopping the fight." He leaned in toward the old man, putting his hand on his shoulder. "Do you think I'm too fucked up? If you do," he said, appealing to his new friend, "they'll likely stop the fight."

" Yo man!" yelled one of the foundry workers, "leave him the fuck alone! Or you're gonna get your ass kicked. "

"Oh yeah," Mark slurred, "what the fuck are you going to do about it?" He started toward the guy then quickly ducked under the bar, moving toward the expensive stuff. He went to the top shelf and grabbed the B&B, splashing a couple quick shots into his mouth. The bar lights mixed with the liquor that had gotten into his eyes; he was gagging a little from the first sip. The second gulp went down like paradise was involved.

The foundry guys had had enough of this clown and they were off their stools moving toward Mark. That's when Mark pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the little gang. "Four on 1; I'd even try kicking 2 of your asses-- but 4? no way.... i need this gun.... sorry...Don't worry, it only goes off when I want it too." He kept the gun pointed at the guy and took another swig of the sweet liquor then decided he'd better buy it.

He threw four twenties on the bar for the liquor. "And for your troubles barkeep; come to think about it buy the bright boys a couple, the good stuff. G' night old man.

"Night!" the old man replied, smiling.

Mark backed out the front door (but not before taking a last look around; even this hammered he knew he was 86'd at least for "awhile"); his gun was still drawn.

Once he was outside and quickly walking toward his car, he put the gun back in his pants. He got into the car and quickly took off, heading into the woods. Who are you kidding, pal, he thought to himself, stunts like this get you 86'd forever and ever.

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