"BAM! His d--k fell off. Just like that!"
"Levy, I'll have to ask you to refrain from using language like that in my house."
The young man smiled mischeviously at his sulking friend. "I was hoping my story would get you out of your crapy mood. Guess not. By the way, what are you upset about anyway?"
"Nothing that really concerns you." His companion replied curtly. "And even if I were in a better mood, I'll never be sick enough in the head to understand your morbid humor."
"Sick in the head?'" Thought Levy. "Sick in the head?" How was he sick in the head? Everyone he knew loved his jokes. And that one was one of his bests!
"You're the one who's sick in the head." He mumbled with a pout. "Your so pissed, that it's infecting my mood too."
He said nothing more as he watched his good friend, Gartier the bartender finish wiping down the sticky, wet counters. A token of patronage left by last night's customers. Though in Gartier's opinion, a tip would have been preferred.
It was a tiring job to do indeed. Levy was tuckered out from just watching his friend tidy the whole place up. Actually, it might've tired out Levy watching anyone do work, being that laziness was his forte. But with Gartier it was different. No one actually cleaned like Gartier. Wait, correction. No human being cleaned like Gartier. And this Levy believed to be the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Gartier had what he liked to call a system. Before he had even opened up this tavern- no, this palace, about a week ago, he created a special 'Cleaning Inventory', where he wrote the name of all the names of furniture, glassware, and silverware, along with what they were made out of, and according to that, how they should be cleaned and what they should be cleaned with.
Along with other points like 'How they should be dried.' or 'How long they were expected to last.' ecetera.
It sure was a sight to see. The guy was so obssessed with cleaning it was scary. He could tell just by the wood of the table, and the leather of the seats, what cleaning product to use, and how long it would take him to clean messes in certain places of the tavern. In fact, he spoke, and took care of this place like he had lived here all his life.
"Yes. Of course I've lived here." He told Levy once on an occasion prior to today. "Ah. But only in my dreams."
Dreams. The word echoed in Levy's head. Like a lonely voice calling for someone at the end of a long corridor. But Levy ignored the call. Dreams were nothing but a silly concept to him. A myth. And even if they were real, he hadn't remembered the last time he had one, since he rarely ever slept.
Besides, from what he had heard and learned throughout his life living here, dreams were nothing but random, jumbled images created by your subconcious. They produced ridiculous, imcomprehesible plots and situations that were in the past, seen as something mystic or otherwordly. When really, all they're used for these days is as an excuse to start wars, and leave him with a bigger mess to clean every single time he'd finish taking care of the one before.
The counter shook vigorously beneath his arm. The sound was loud and sharp enough to cut the cord attaching his mind to a vicious cycle of tense thinking.
"What you've been waiting for good sir." Announced Gartier. "Your medicine."
With a sudden turn of the heel he left Levy in his moment of bliss. For if he had stayed any longer, he might have lost all composure from looking at the stupid grin on Levy's sleepy face.
"Ah God bess you Garty, you're a saint, I swear it!"
And after the gratitude was spent, Levy wasted not one more second with words of adoration. He lifted the tall cool glass to his lips and quenched the fire in his mouth that could only be put out with one thing, and one thing only:
Ah. The heavenly liquid shimmered beneath the light hanging overhead like glowing amber.
It cleansed the mind and heart of any trouble. Of the most burning questions with unattainable answers and ideas that come with the load of living.
Ah, yes. Beer is truly a-
Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.
Levy stared in disbelief at what awaited him at the bottom of his now empty beer mug.
"F--k." The poor man whispered to himself. Staring blankly at his murky reflection in the pristine marble counter, he let what he had seen settled in. He attempted to persuade himself into looking again, to see if what he had seen was what he'd saw. But his body refused. He knew all too well what he saw wasn't a dream. He didn't believe in dreams anyway. It was no use.
Then suddenly, as if some sort of raging evil pervaded his spirit, he slammed the glass down onto the counter with a force that spoke clearly for his anger. And again, with just a little bit more volume to shake himself from the numbness, he yelled with profound power, "F--K!"
art, bars, beer, city, depression, dreams, fiction, writers, insomniac, love, nsfw, poetry, profanity, taverns, travel, wait, wars, welcome, writing