Who needs God when you have bourbon?

Adlai swirled the dark liquid around his glass, staring at his reflection as it washed in and out of focus. He took another sip and felt the heat slide down the back of his throat. It was more than comforting.

Bourbon had always been his favourite. Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe, all those hard boiled detectives, it was their favourite too. The drink of the driven, lonely man. Sitting next to a chess board in your lonely flat, mulling things over.

Gin was the thinking man’s drink. Gin or scotch. Sherlock Holmes would have drunk gin. Gin for thinking, bourbon for fighting, that was what they said. Bourbon angried up the blood, made you feel pissed off at the world and man enough to do something about it.

Adlai never got that way. He was angry at the world by default. Who wasn’t these days? He stared at the rain ceaselessly streaking down the window. Out here, off Grid, that was all you could afford to be, and that was all you got. Rain and more rain. And darkness. All the power diverted to the Grid, keeping their skies bright and clear, their streets safe and free of vermin.

He looked around the bar. It was still quiet, just a couple of regular drunks over in one booth, having the same conversation they had every night. Like they were rehearsing a play, stuck in the same crease in time, the same scratch on the record, each and every night. Their brains had been short circuited somehow. Perhaps it was a good thing. Ignorance is bliss.

No, not much vermin here tonight, but it was early. Later more would come, the scavengers, the feeders, the hookers and assassins. Anyone who made their living out here, fucking someone else over. Anyone who’d decided they preferred the darkness and rain to the bright lights of the Grid. There were a lot of them. Not everyone appreciated what they saw in the mirror.

It was always safe here though, this was neutral territory. No-one ever bothered you here.

“Ever looked in the mirror and been surprised?”

The barman – what was his name? Jack? – glanced over but saw the half full glass in front of him and went back to rubbing the same patch of bar. He didn’t want any conversation.

No-one did anymore. You want conversation, go plug yourself in. Go talk to the drunks in their booth. Enter stage left.

Ah, you should stop thinking so much. Let the bourbon do its work, let it wash back the years and take them away on the tide, leaving an empty, pristine beach of pure white. Clean, ready for any old story you want to scratch into the sand.