Marik had lost track of what day it was. All he ever seemed to do was come here, anyway.
Sitting down at the bar in his usual spot – second last, to the right – he caught the bartender's inquisitive eye and nodded. The bartender flashed him a small smile, and began to work on his usual – a martini, extra boozy, with three olives, not one – stirred and not shaken.
In front of him sat two other finished drinks. Were he anyone else, this may be worrisome – but he was, after all, a regular. Ever since Malik left him, he'd been a mess. And Malik left him, when...? Oh, right. He smirked to himself, and nodded at the bartender who slid him his third drink. He wasn't keeping track of the time, was he? Grasping the drink gratefully, he took a generous sip.
This was a good place to be alone. It was a quiet bar; reserved for alcoholics and the clinically depressed. No one bothered talking here unless it was to fight over their bar tab. With drunkards, they always seemed to forget the last thirty or forty dollars they spent.
So there he sat, and there he drank, letting the gin swirl mournfully in his mouth. It stung going down, but it was better than thinking about him...and he acknowledged this with another mouthful. He let the solitude surround him; he sank in the intoxicating wonder of it all. This was his only way of peace, it seemed.
But suddenly, the door flew open with a bang against the wall. All of the drunks in the joint, including Marik, snapped out of the haze of inebriation and looked toward the open door, currently radiating the light of a late afternoon.
There, clad in tight blue jeans, a clingy red t-shirt complemented with a leather vest, topped off with an American flag bandana tied swiftly around his blond hair and sunglasses, was the perpetrator. Behind him was a gaggle of what Marik could only assume were high school dropouts or bikers.
Stepping into the bar, the man proclaimed, "I can't wait to buy a drink...in America!"