God, this seat is cold. Green, too. I hate green.
I trace my finger around the glass of whiskey in front of me, scraping dust and grime away from the edge of the old goblet. Looking up, I can see his eyes staring at me, and he's saying "It's on the house."
You bet your ass it is.
His brown hair is falling into his tan face, and he's got that warm look around him, like a fireplace thawing away the cold, dead snow that encases human civilization while it sleeps. He's probably a really good guy.
His eyes are green. I hate green.
I slowly count the number of people playing pool, poker, or beer pong.
I've always loved playing beer pong.
I take a shot of the whiskey, and the dust settling inside of it almost chokes me. Is this foreshadowing? Is this an act of God, trying to steer me away from the consequences my diseased mind has already drawn up for me? Is this the opening hug of the gallows, wrapping itself around me and whispering to me in its macabre voice.
"Are you ready to die?"
God, I can almost hear those whispers, so much that I wonder if they're really there...
I take another sip, feeling the dust settle in my windpipe much like the bodies that will inevitably lay on the floor of this bar in the last couple minutes of these poor souls lives.
God, I want to play some beer pong. Maybe when I'm through here, I could head to another bar. And another. And another.
First thing's first, though. You've got to live in the moment.
These people here should know that.
What is the deal with seven? I've never understood the magical fascination people seem to hold with seven. Or thirteen.
Wouldn't it be cool if there were thirteen people here? Now that would be a sign from God.
I've never believed much in God.
Finally, I stand up, slowly letting a dagger slide down my sleeve.
That was some horrible whiskey.
I turn to the first patron of the bar, watching as he finishes up his round of pool.
"Last call!" I hear behind me.
Last call, indeed, I mutter, and the poor soul turns to me.
His eyes are red, such an unholy red, as if he's a fish snorting oxygen for the hell of it.
Why do fish have gills if they can't breathe air?
The thoughts of a diseased mind. Oh, how sweet.
This poor sap, this poor fish out of water, he opens his mouth and slurs, "Whatchoo say man?"
I open my mouth to answer, but decide against it, instead sliding the knife from underneath my sleeve and uncerimoniously slitting the poor man's throat. He spins 180 degrees before falling.
I turn to the other souls, cutting them down like paper angels one by one, one by one, one by one...
Just call me the devil, baby, 'cause I'm drinking angel blood tonight.
After twenty minutes, my work is done. I pull my dagger out of the bartender, his green eyes now dulled with the deep gray weight of death.
God, I hate green.
God, I want to play some beer pong.
Who is this God guy, anyway?
I turn to the game of beer pong, forever frozen in a state of midfinish, and pick up a ball.