Death - Drunk

I THINK…I THINK I COULD BE FRIENDS WITH THE GREEN BOTTLE.

The landlord slid the octagon-bottle along the counter. Death took it and tilted it over the glass. The liquid tinkled on the rim.

YOU DRUNK I’M THINK, DON’T YOU?

“I serve anyone who can stand upright best out of three,” said the landlord.

YOURRRE ABSOROOTLY RIGHT. BUT I—

The stranger paused, one declamatory finger in the air.

WAS WHAT I SAYING?

“You said I thought you were drunk.”

AH. YES, BUT I CAN BE SHOBER ANY TIME I LIKE. THIS ISH AN EXPERIMENT. AND NOW I WOULD LIKES TO EXPERIMENT WITH THE ORANGE BRANDY AGAIN.

The landlord sighed, and glanced at the clock. There was no doubt that he was making a lot of money, especially since the stranger didn’t seem inclined to worry about overcharging or short change. But it was getting late; in fact it was getting so late that it was getting early. There was also something about the solitary customer that unsettled him. People in The Mended Drum often drank as though there was no tomorrow, but this was the first time he’d actually felt they might be right.

***

Mort p128