I don't even know what this is. I practically came up with it on a whim, don't expect anything to the quality tier of say, a renaissance artist in his prime. To get the best experience out of this piece, I suggest listening to some, oh I don't know, "bar ambiance" if that even exists. Maybe some slow jazz, the kind that would play if you were drunk off your ass and had no sense of earthly direction.
Keep in mind that there are also accents in here, poor, shitty, stereotyped ones, but accents none-the-less. Keep it in mind. I'll also give you ten points if you can guess what the hell the topic of this piece even is. It's real easy, honestly.
Review, review, review, all I can honestly ask for. Thank you for the consideration.
Word Count: 2088 words.
Old Bold and Brash
"Basically speaking, if I had to give you a summary of my life in say, ten seconds or so, I'd describe it with a level of raunchiness akin to, a mate tight-fucking his dead-gals loose-caboose, good one, eh?"
Everything smells like smoke.
Everything smells like heavy, tasteless, bland alcohol that's clearly being served in lesser amounts per portion, almost as if greedy freaking tightwads were running the joint.
There's someone puking outside into the freaking rain, there's always someone doing that, doing great justice to the rival "book club" just down the street, a stupid sign that could be interpreted by those landwhales as, "Look at me! I'm a big 'ol dumb chap who's chunking out a big one! That means all men are filthy scum!"
Speaking of which, there just happens to be another lad chunking out something else in the corner of the pub.
It isn't a regurgitation, and it's not out his mouth.
Regardless, Nate fucking loves it. The only place he can get away from the missus, her big, obnoxious hair, and surprisingly matching knockers.
On the inside, that is, outside not so much. Isn't his cup of tea to be a bloating bigot with a trumpet the size of his hair in front of a bunch of claustro-loving men.
'You know what they say about guys with big hair...'
There's big black circles under his eyes, and he doesn't care.
He's downed like, five glasses without a stop in sight, and he doesn't really care.
One time his doctor stuck a finger up his ass, and only Hugh seemed to care about that.
'That sounded better in my head...'
The bartender, whom is referred to by the patrons as, oh let's say, Cappy, gives Nate a curious eye as he hand-scrubs a few empty mugs.
Being a farce veteran from an imaginary war in his head, he is clearly deserving of the most condescending self-praise, and on top of that, experience with getting an eye shot out with a rifle.
Cappy had and will always have, a hard life, as designated by this place in which he is the proprietor of, a pub in an alley in the middle of the booming metropolis known as Castelia, filled with businessmen, annoying deviant hipsters, and clowns who don't know their place in life and should just piss off for their own damn good.
This small, insignificant, turd-ridden pub is a small percentage of what remains of the sanity in the city, and by jove, it's full of drunk peasants.
"Aye, ye lookin' a bit down, mate, wha's da matter?"
Droning a loud sigh, or a groan, he's far too out of it to tell, Nate grabs a cig from his pocket. With the utmost careful of precision, (the least terrible amongst all of the dumped, crying losers.) he lights it, takes a puff, and twiddles it in his fingers with a look of utter contempt at life, something Cappy is not foreign to.
Despite being so out of it from holy hell and back, he's somehow still able to convey clear messages with those charred lungs of his, "Let me tell you something, even though I don't want to talk about it, I'm going to anyway."
"That so?"
"It is so, now shut it so I can say it, see, it all starts out with this: Have you ever been in the spotlight long enough to see you become the villain?"
"Wha kinda question is 'tat?"
"That isn't an answer, it's a statement."
"Answers are statements, I din't say a statement, I ask'd anotha question, chap."
'I'm more out of it than I thought...'
Cappy gives him time to re-think his words, in the meantime he spit-shines another mug.
"Alright, I have it. Imagine you're passing the torch to someone, in say, a marathon, but you're so benevolent from all the fun you've been having, that you don't want to do it?"
Cappy narrows his eyes, "...Are ye talkin' 'bout me ex-wife?"
"Look, it's really hard to explain..."
"Like 'yer cybo-robo-bobo-arm? That 'ting is the creeps!"
Nate's eyes turn to his right arm, which is indeed, robotic. A night on the prowl had proven quite foul to him, and a few adjustments had to be made if he ever wanted to write in cursive, or write at all really.
He's gotten use to it.
'Good for pumping, I guess.'
"Are you telling me that it's no creepier than the eye?" he asks, in midst of a patron down the counter ripping a new one.
"'Tat eye, 'tat eye...'Tat eye is just 'te worse part, lad! Should'a banned ye months ago!"
"Too late, storytime. So, long story short, I'm getting dumped."
Cappy cocks a confused eyebrow, "By the missus? 'Tout ye married her already...?"
"No no no, she hasn't tired me yet, mind you I get a kick out of each Thursday night, she lets me nibble on her rolls those days. Her toes are great too but, that's a different, kinkier story. Anyhow, I'm getting dumped by the powers that be."
"Powers...'tat be?"
"Yes."
"I don't understan'."
"I know."
"Care 'ta explain 'ten? Dun't make me raise ye tab now."
"You never keep track of it anyways!"
"...Go on."
Nate takes another puff, and another swig of beer, the mixture, although blatantly tasteless to the fourteen year old adolescents who get dared into doing it by their douche friends, is heaven personified to the now twenty-or-so lad. Mid-late, somewhere in that general area.
"The biz is dumping me Cappy, replacing me for this other cunt, apparently I don't bring the pizzazz anymore. In less than three months time I'll be forgotten, worthless."
Cappy suddenly gets it. Hurrah.
"Aye, I see it now, 'yer pissed 'cause the cheese-eating monks gonna take 'yer place, eh? Bein' 'pletely honest 'ere, you've kinda had 'yer run, ye stopped Plasma from doin' whataver, 'tat's good enough?
Nate ignores the question.
"Y'know while you're at it, why don't you get me that Ursaring Vodka behind you? I don't tell this shit for free, you know."
With a grunt, Cappy complies.
"I dun't sell this shit 'fa free eitha."
"Tab."
Nate takes the bottle, removes the cork, does fuck all with it, and downs a swig before returning to his sad-sap story, "I guess, maybe I'm just overreacting. Kid doesn't seem that shit, I guess. Too stubborn? Would that be the right word?"
"'Tis be an understatement."
"Right..."
Nate takes another swig, gargles it like it's mouthwash, and then swallows it, also like a toddler would do with mouthwash, "Ugh...I've just been down in the dumps lately... Not feeling up to doing much, I think I've wasted my life."
Cappy briefly turns around to address another depressed peasant, but he keeps an open ear as he pours five shots, "'Te neo-hero of Unova feels sluggish? Whata shockah. Bah, maybe ye'll just get 'tova it if ye talk 'bout it, maybe 'yer 'ccomplishments too."
Silence follows.
"Y'know I used to be in movies?"
Cappy keeps two open ears.
"Really now?"
"Mhm, used to do all sorts of movies with my Osh-Osh. Heh, it even got me my first girlfriend. She was kinda cute."
"Is 'tat so? What makes her so 'diff from the missus?"
"Well she had unnatural fucking hair for one thing, I mean, it looked good on her, but still, it was odd. She was famous because, I don't know, she had an angel's voice or whatever, I was famous, I did movies."
"Why is it 'tat celebs only date celebs? Whatup 'wit 'tat?"
"Don't know, stop interrupting. That said, where was I?- Right. Anyways, she was kinda cute, we didn't bump-uglies, too young, but we did kiss a bit, she was kinda shy when she wasn't interviewing talking scout-rodents, easily a solid...nine? The missus is ten point five, for comparison."
"Makes me 'wonda why ye broke it off."
"Well, these assholes started rumors that pinky was hitting it off with this co-worker behind my back, didn't know what to believe when it started getting obnoxious. My future with her, or the realization that behind my back, pinky and green bean are having hot sweaty sex in the prop room."
"And 'tats why ye ended it?"
"I suppose it is. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to cut it off, she was a tad too clingy."
"I'm guessin' 'ye career was 'fin past that, eh?"
"You got that right. Never recovered. I had to scatter off, go lowbrow. I didn't re-appear until the old heroes from yester-year showed up, apparently they were cooked up in some search, he gave it to her hardafter vented up frustration crumbled the two of them. Turns out the guy they were looking for was back at home the whole time too, needless to say I would have tapped that too if I was stuck traveling with someone like her. I commend him for being such a black knight everyday."
"Mm, so ye used their re-appearance as a cova-up?"
"Yeah, while everyone was focused on them, I got back into the limelight and took that stupid liberation nationdown a few pegs like they did a few years before me. I even met the guy they were looking for, he was kinda stupid."
"Aye, I 'ken tell. What 'appened next?"
Nate rubs his cig ass out in the nearest tray and finishes his mug, leaving more room for the vodka, "Well by that point my journey was over, had nothing else to do. So my best guy was going after the missus and I was like, "No." so I cockblocked him to the punch, and now he's kinda gay for me, I don't know. I don't get how his psyche works. I'm just glad I get a rubbing out of it now."
"When did ye get 'yer new job?"
"Few months after I was old enough to move out. They said they were looking for someone cool and relevant in an ironic way, how could I say no? So I agreed, I got my cool tux, my Bond-kit, and the rest is history. But now it seems like it's almost done."
"Ye had a good run, I'm tellin' ya!"
"I guess."
At that moment, a splash of alcohol hits Nate's jacket and swimsuit. Needless to say, he fumes rather fast, and turns to the whining asshole responsible.
"Son of a- Who the hell do you think you ar-!"
At the sight of a familiar face, even more drunk than him, face-planted into the bar counter, Nate quickly links together a stupid realization.
"Oh yeah, I forgot I brought you along, Hugh."
The blue-haired bastard runs a hand through his hair, mumbling something about an apology, something uncommon from him in his sober form. Nevertheless Nate appreciates that he's at least trying.
He sighs, and picks at his teeth with a complimentary toothpick.
Soon, he smiles.
"Y'know what? Thanks. Talking about it actually did help. Let that monsieur take my flare, couldn't give less of a shit. I hope he porks the girl he happens to be childhood friends with. I suppose Hugh and I will be off now."
Cappy is about to request payment when he remembers that that's just another laugh to Nate.
"'Rite 'ten, glad it worked out, see ya both same time tomorra?"
"Unless she nags to me again about not picking up my hat off the floor for the umpteenth time, then yes."
After ordering a quick bottle of MooMooMilk to go, Nate gets up out of his seat and turns to his friend, who's kind of half-asleep, half-not. Regardless he's not at all there.
He nudges Hugh, "Wake up. Time to hit it."
The dork eventually wakes up with bloodshot eyes, he yawns, and then tells his best chum to fuck off for doing that.
In retaliation, Nate pulls the ultimate ass move.
"Alright, I guess we're both in agreement then, you're the more sober, I'll see to it that you don't crash my prize into a lamppost."
At first, Hugh doesn't grasp the concept, at least not until he sees the PokeMart Rewards tag clipped to his keys, "Wait, what...?-"
Nate tosses his keys swiftly into Hugh's face.
"Shotgun."
Hugh groans and gets out of his seat, Nate drapes an arm around him to make sure his stupor doesn't disrupt the place, and also to comfort him from bitching all the way back.
"Tell you what, stay over at my place tonight. We'll get...we'll get Rosa to make you a...uh, big...big 'ol cinnamon roll, or something."
Hugh mumbles something akin to a hurrah as they exit the pub, and into the cold rain of the night.