Wickham strolled the streets of London until he felt totally satisfied. Elizabeth's touch was still fresh in his mind. He savored the memory, wallowed in the lingering feeling. Around one in the morning, he stumbled into a pub. The smell of smoke and alcohol washed over him as he entered the dingy place. He sat at a table and ordered a glass of whiskey. He had done it, he had finally done it. His wish was not complete, both parts of it. He had bedded Elizabeth and he had made his revenge on Darcy. Now what was he saying about the rich uncle? He was rich, he was the last of the Wickhams, he would collect his money and go somewhere north. Yes, that's it, that's what I'll do! He gulped down the whiskey and raised his hand to the barmaid to order another drink. When she bent over to put the drink on the table, Wickham caught a glance at her cleavage. He whistles, she blushed and giggling strutted away. When the time came to pay, he realized he had no money on him.
"I'll pay you as soon as I get my hands on a little cash." He said as casually as his drunken voice would allow him. The owner refused to hear any of it.
"You pay now or you…you… pay with your life!" he finished lamely.
"With my life, you say?" Wickham laughed a shaky drunken laugh. He reached to his side for his revolver, but it wasn't there. "Damn you man." He cursed. He had forgotten that it was taken away from him at the Darcy residence. Wickham spat on the floor. "Alright, I'll pay you. But first, you must give me something to pay with." He grinned.
"Now look here, young man –" the owner never finished his sentence. Before he knew it, he was on the floor with his own revolver pointed at his face. "Damn quick for one so drunk." He muttered.
"I'm not drunk till my tenth bottle of whiskey." Wickham stated. "A hard man, you might say. To devil with it all, wasting my time. Gimme some cash and I'll be gone." He said as he waived the revolver at the owner's face.
"It ain't loaded, fool."
"Why don't we test it? Say… on you." He pressed the trigger.
The owner did not even flinch. Wickham pressed it again and again, but nothing happened.
"Curse you!" and he threw it across the room, hitting a man who was seated a few tables away, having a quiet drink. He looked quite large just sitting there. Wickham gulped. He was about to apologize when he found the giant's hands on his throat.
"What ye think ye doin' throwin guns at people? Lost yer mind?"
"S-sorry" Wickham gagged. "D-did-didn't see-you."
"For God's sake, put him down, Roger. You'll kill the man."
Roger did as he was told. That is, he threw Wickham across the room where he landed with an unpleasant thud where he did not move again.
"Now look what ye've done, Roger." Then turning to another man he asked "Check his pulse, see if he's still alive." The man did and shook his head no. There was no pulse. The owner checked it himself and found none as well. It didn't surprise him. The man was drunk and Roger was one hell of a man when in bad mood. Well, the least they could do is throw the body out into the street for trash pick up. And so they did.