Chapter 1: Bitter

“Here ya go pal.”

The bartender wore a smug grin as he placed the Old Fashioned in front of me with all the poise of a drunken baboon. The kid was young, might not even be old enough to drink the swill he’s serving, and far too full of himself. His name’s Andy I think… no, maybe Ricky? Like it matters, I’m too old to give a damn about some puffed-up asshole kid, whatever his name is. His type don’t last long here anyway.

A few moments later, realizing he’s not getting so much as a thank you out of me, he slinks back to the other end of the grimy counter. Even has the nerve to look insulted.

Jack’s isn’t the kind of place you go to have a good time. Jack’s was where the congregation of the poor, beaten down, and disenfranchised souls met every night to wallow in their squalor. It’s one of the few places a deplorable guy like me can go without feeling the scorn of society. Everyone’s equally fucked here.

A familiar band of vagrants surrounds me tonight. Don’t know any of their names, and they don’t know mine. A hollow expression permeates through their sunken eyes. These are dead men, they just haven’t stopped moving yet.

I sat in my usual spot, at the far end of the counter, right below that damned light that’s been flickering for weeks now. It’s starting to give me a headache, but it doesn’t bother me too much. My light went out a long time ago.

Before I could get to my drink, I spent the next few minutes hacking into a soiled rag I kept on me for just such an occasion. There was no reprieve from the constant coughing fits that interrupted my solemn solitude. As I tucked the rag away, I caught a glimpse of crimson red that had become all too familiar. Something was killing me. Never bothered to find out what.

Oh sure, there was a time when everything around me wasn’t all doom and gloom. You might have even described me as cheery once. I had a wife, two kids, a modest house, the whole kit and caboodle. Of course, that was before. All I got is ghosts now.

The thing I’ve realized about ghosts though, is that the haunting isn’t unwarranted. They just want what’s owed. In my case, revenge.

The cool glass felt good in my hand. The euphoric fragrance of bourbon filled my nostrils as I raised the glass to my lips. The ineptness of my young bartender was immediately apparent as the drink crashed against my tongue. The proportions were all off.
I had half a mind to smash the glass against that fucking kid’s temple. What kind of idiot fucks up a drink with 3 ingredients? My hand clenched tightly around the glass, and my head started pounding like a hammer on red hot steel.

As quickly as the rage had flared, it receded. It didn’t matter I realized, all I care about is getting drunk tonight. A quiet calmness returned and I felt the war drums in my veins fading away. The rage had passed, but it was never far from the surface.

I took another sip.

Bitter.

So bitter.