An innkeeper asked for no money for his stay, making it known to him that she and her husband had no intentions of remaining much longer and the inn would be abandoned to the winds of fate the following morning. “Stay all you like,” she'd told him. “Come sunrise, you're the best option I have to be the new owner!”
The thought amused him. At least he may get something out of this ordeal.
After dropping what little belongings he had in a quiet room on an empty floor, Johan set out to find the agreed-upon bar where he planned on doing two things: drinking and hoping.
From one side of the town to the other, people were bustling about trying to leave as quickly as possible. Some passed him an odd glance, clearly wondering who this young man was who seemed to be in no hurry to go anywhere. Glances were all they offered, though; their problems were of far more importance to them.
Land’O’North Tavern was the only business in the area that seemed to be thriving, with people coming and going freely and the sounds of laughter coming from inside.
The crowd was raucous, to say the least. At least two fights were happening between groups of obviously drunken men (and women), yet no one seemed to take the slightest notice or attempt to stop it. Indeed, most were watching and cheering it on like sport. Elsewhere, men and women were dancing (though no music could be heard), couples were kissing and fondling each other with a ferocity generally reserved for the bedroom, and all around the 'chink' of glasses meeting was present. Indeed, if one were to guess, one would have never suspected that an army with unmeasured power, size and ruthlessness was approaching at great speed not far away.
In a way, Johan understood it completely. The last few days had been trying for everyone here, not just him. Before the race to wherever they thought was safe, why not tie one last one on and have a bit of drunken fun? Although not quite as chipper, at least not enough to join in, he was thankful for the aura of hedonistic euphoria the crowd emitted. He pushed his way to the bar, with more drinks spilled on him as he passed than he was likely to consume, and found a busted barstool that wobbled and creaked as he sat.
Ollie was the only one behind the bar, unable to keep pace with the orders, but caring not the slightest. Money poured in as the booze poured out, despite his insistence that people were paying too much. Gratuity jars were filled, and then quickly emptied before someone got any bright ideas.
The barman was nearly tackled by one particularly loud and generous fellow. “A drink for me, a drink for him, a drink for you! We're all goin' to hell anyway, better drunk than sober! Oh shit, man, a drink for that one down there! Now he needs one!” He was pointing to Johan, who seemed to be the only one on the premises with a sour face. In times like these, that likely seemed to mean he was the hardest up for a drink.
Ollie poured the drink, a cloudy brown ooze that was more sludge than beverage, finishing the bottle into glasses (each save one were grabbed by the loud man, money tossed in Ollie’s face as he turned to rejoin the rabble). The barman brought the remaining glass down and set it in the hands of Johan. “Courtesy of the polite gentleman over there,” he motioned to the general direction of no one in particular, “somewhere…”
Johan took it with a nod and thanks, and it would have ended there had not Ollie’s wife rejoined the fray, harassed by patrons who would simply shout at any man or woman foolhardy enough to be behind the bar. A reprieve for the old slinger, it seemed.
As one may recall, Ollie enjoyed his job very much, and a brief opportunity to console the seemingly inconsolable in times like this was too tempting to pass up. He took this moment of grand foolishness by his wife to focus on the youngster at his bar.
“I'd be careful lad. That's not for the timid.”
Johan smiled. With a nod to the tender, he sucked the ghastly sludge back with the grace of an old pro; his lack of experience only to show a moment later when he erupted into harsh coughing and wheezing while slamming the bar with his hands.
Ollie gave a large laugh, the only kind he was capable of, and slapped him on the shoulders with large, weathered hands. “Well done, sir, well done. Most can't handle my special blend for another twenty or thirty years or so.” Ollie had seen it bring larger men to their knees. This one’s reaction was downright tame by some comparisons.
Johan looked at the man with red eyes, tears forming (though from sadness or the drink, Ollie couldn't say). “Another, please.”
The good nature of the old man faded slightly. He had poured this beverage for the loud man and his rowdy friends to hopefully get them off his back for a moment, and this one had simply been an innocent bystander. Now, after the rank liquid had gone down to what seemed to be unanimous disapproval, the desire for a second wasn't as much shocking as it was off-putting. This one had seen some terrible things to be in this kind
