On the Road again.

The Road. (Image credit: Getty Images via @daylife)

"Yes, it really was an awful game." I said to the bartender. "Our team certainly did abysmally."

 We shared a laugh. I tried, once again, to trust my money upon the man, hoping that I could escape this torturous interaction before anyone realised I had no idea what sport we were talking about.

 "Ok, here you are." He said, placing my drink in front of me. "Anything else?"

 "Well, I'll take another for the road." I replied.

 "Thank!" Yelled the road, "You're a good sort... Much better than Franco. Stupid dictator, never bought me any flowers."

 I nodded politely. I hated the road, but he was married to my sister and I was socially obliged to spend time with him. Of course, he was all right sober, but as soon as we reached the bar, Oh! He'd left his wallet in his other layby, would I get this round and he'd get the next? "Oh, I'm sorry, I meant to pop round Tuesday and repay you for the drinks, but I had to wait because some workmen were coming to install some traffic lights on me."

 "Thanks... Thanks again, Alan," he belched and mumbled on my return. "You're a good man, but you'd... you'd better not hit me drunk. You know? Hit the road? Like driving? But drunk, so drunk driving? You know, so you shouldn't drink drive? It... it is a play on words?"

 I agreed, it was a play on words. It wasn't a good play on words, and it hadn't been the first time he told me that joke in 1987. And my name had never been Alan.

 I fucking hate the road.

I was in a forest...

"And another... another thing!" The tree hiccuped drunkenly, "She never lets me see the kids! Bitch!"
 I looked around sadly. It was no use, there was no-one else here: I didn't like the tree, but I felt sorry for him. His divorce had come through today, and someone needed to look after him.
 "It's ok big guy," I offered sympathetically. Reaching out, I patted his soft, punchable bark.
 "Hey!" He yelled, "Don't patronize me! I don't need you! I don't need anyone!"
Batting me away with a branch, he stormed off, towards the setting sun. After a few uneasy steps, he began to lose his balance, stumbling over roots and terrified wildlife.
 "Get away!" He yelled, as I again offered to help.
 Fine, I thought to myself, be a jerk. Turning on my heel, I went to leave. Behind me, I could make out the noises of the tree falling over.
A tree fell in the forest, and I heard it. But I'll never tell.

The bear took another swig of beer. I tried to check my watch subtly, wondering exactly how late it was. Whatever time, it was far too late to be listening to a drunken bear. Frankly, I regretted ever going to an animal bar, but friends had told me it was exciting.
 It was not.
 "And... And alcohol, is a great provoker of three things..." He mumbled drunkenly.
 "Oh..." I replied. I really didn't care, but he went on anyway.
 "What does it provoke?" He asked himself. Then, believing I had asked the question, he continued: "Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes;it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore, much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him."
 I looked at him in shock for a few moments. I had been willing to set aside the fact that bears can't speak for the evening, but now he was quoting Shakespeare. Even for me, this was particularly weird. After a few minutes, the bear collapsed drunkenly, destroying the table. The bartender glared at me angrily from behind his ill-tended bar, and I smiled apologetically. The bartender, obviously not placated by this, pulled a shotgun from behind the bar, and I ran for it.
 He'll probably shoot the bear and stuff him. I know I should care, but that seems like a lot of work. Besides, if I go 'round rescuing everyone who quotes Shakespeare, it'll go to his head. And no-one wants big-headed zombie Shakespeares, do they?

The name's Hartman. Hank Hartmon. I'm a cop.
Two weeks ago, my partner was killed by a maniac known only as the Frenchman. He was 3 days away from retirement. I tracked down the guy responsible, but I broke procedure. They let him go, and I've been suspended. So I'm going to have to get justice myself.
I drink too much. Same with smokes. That's why I'm here in this shitty bar, drinking generic beers, and throwing back scotch like my neck's convulsing. But soon, I'll be faced with an important challenge in my quest for justice. I'll be able to stop the drinking straight away. Hell, I won't even shake. Be able to fire a handgun accurately up to half a mile, even though I've got a litre of alcohol in me.

Speaking of a litre of alcohol, I really need to pee. But I'm a Hollywood Cliché, and they don't use the bathroom. Not ever.