The Many Regrets of a Cyborg Werewolf

Catastrophic Failure - X

The air in the bar was calm. Closing time was approaching, and the majority of the patrons had already left. It wasn't quite the last call, but few were willing to stay too late, and the bar itself had only one occupant. He sat on a stool, leaning on the counter, a beer that had long lost its chill held in his hand. It wasn't his first that night, and if he had his way it wouldn't be the last, but the older man simply clung to it as his head hung low. He didn't even notice when another man approached, taking the seat two stools down. This newcomer was a regular, wordlessly nodding his shaggy head to the bartender who prepared his usual. Why someone would come so late, the man holding the beer didn't know, but it was just odd enough for the older man to finally take notice.

"You like to skip the rush?" He said, barely slurring his words out.

"Sure," the shaggy man said. His tone and face betrayed the obvious. He chose to drink late to avoid other people, and he had no interest in the older man's presence.

"I drink here all my life," the older man said as he turned back to his own bottle, "never seen you around."

"Yes you have," the shaggy man nodded as his drink was placed before him, "you just don't remember me."

"Probably not." The older man hammered back the last of his beer, nearly dropping the bottle as he placed it back on the coaster. "One more."

"No more, pal," the bartender said, "you're cut off."

"Just one more, man," the older man begged, "I got shit to forget." The bartender rolled his eyes, sighed, then presented another bottle. He popped off the cap and switched it with the empty one out, the older man grasping it by the neck.

"That's why we drink, right?" he asked the shaggy man, "to forget... the fucked up things we got to deal with."

"Some of us," he replied. The older man laughed, though no joke was said, and as abruptly as it started he stopped, his gaze glancing at the television. The program changed, the news taking over whatever sports game was being ignored. It was an update about a missing person. A boy. Eighteen years old.

"That!" The older man said as he pointed, his mood souring, "that right there is what we try to forget. Forget how ugly and diseased this city is."

The shaggy man didn't reply.

"Thing is, that kid's probably dead somewhere," the older man continued. "Lying in an alley or ditch with a needle in his arm. This town eats people, y'know? Chews 'em up, sucks 'em dry, then throws them out like... like garbage."

The shaggy man took a sip of his drink.

"Are we supposed to feel bad?" The older man said, more at the television than any soul in the bar. "We should feel 'sorry' that some punk went and killed himself with drugs because he couldn't stop stealing? Feedin' his addiction by swiping his old man's cash and selling his mom's jewelry? We take pity when one of these kids ruins their lives?"

The shaggy man placed his glass down.

"It's this fucking town's fault!" The older man said, his anger slowly melting into melancholy as his breaths turned to sobs, "it's this town's fault... if it wasn't for this wretched Goddamned city he might... he might've come home. He might've realized what he did wrong and just... just come back like she said he would."

The shaggy man remained silent.

"I thought I was doing what I had to," the man continued to weep, "I thought he needed tough love, like I got. Y'know I was already out on my own for two years when I was his age? I thought I was doin' the right thing... there has to be consequences, and he just couldn't stop stealing, so I threw him out and he just..." The older man couldn't speak. He wept into his hand, the alcohol and sadness leaving him inconsolable. The bartender approached him, taking the barely touched bottle from his hands.