Superstition
The night is old, but while the sun still slumbers men may drink away their troubles in the company of lowlifes and scoundrels, the likes of which only seem to expose themselves in the dead of night. The moon is but a sliver in the black, winter-clear sky, and casts only enough light for the blind to see by. Street lamps flicker and die, then flutter back to life in the way of drowsy watchmen. The streets, ancient cobblestone, are sparsely populated at this uncanny hour. There are but three places a man can go, if he wishes—the warmth of his home, the seclusion of the alleys, or the simple-minded drunkenness of the local bar. Most night walkers favor the latter.
One particular man wanders the streets in search of this pub, and already his breath smells of spirits. His belly pudges outward indignantly, and his skin has a faint yellowish hue that any man who claimed relative sanitation would deem rather unhealthy. His eyes are milky and lost in the emptiness that occupies his mind. What thoughts do pass through his hollow head are brief, and often angry. He seems to limp on his thick legs, grumbling loudly to himself. His hair long ago deemed his head unworthy of its color and departed, leaving it balding and spotted with leprosy’s seal. The street lamps he passes by flicker and die, coming to life only once his figure has passed. The man in the moon turns away at the deplorable sight, unsure if he should feel pity or repulsion.
At last the man finds a tavern willing to house his person, and he enters, slapping down a large sum on the bar and demanding all the spirits the money will buy. The bartender takes one look and frowns, but he has seen this man’s ilk before, and so remains silent. The bar stool creaks beneath him, perhaps not for his size but for his stench. The tavern-goers grant him a wide berth as he drinks away his troubles, hardly coming up for air but to request another drink. At first his presence sparks revolted whispers, but these soon fade as song and dance fill the air and ale fills their bellies; after all, they who pay appointments at this hour are hardly much better than he.
For a time he drinks alone, grumbling incoherently and drinking himself into a stupor; and then a man sits down next to him. The man is strange and rather out of place in this tavern at this hour. He is tall and slim, well kempt and well mannered. He asks for a drink with a long and complicated name, instructing the bartender to prepare his tonic just so. The bartender, for a moment, is thrown off by his manner, used to serving drunken men who have no manner at all. As the bartender prepares the man’s drink, the tall man looks to the drunkard beside him, appraising him. He tilts his head and strokes a thin goatee. His brow crinkles as he observes the drunkard’s yellow skin and spotted head. He hearkens to the drunkard’s grumblings and frowns. As the drunkard reaches for his next drink, he locks eyes with the tall man.
“What do you want?” the drunkard slurs loudly. The tall man smiles and adjusts his tie—a vibrant red that pops in such a dim place—and motions for the bar tender to come near.
“Another drink for my comrade,” the man says. His accent is from a distant place, America perhaps. The bartender looks confused for a moment, certain that this gentleman should most assuredly not wish to associate himself with this drunkard, but upon the insistence of the tall man the bartender brings forth a bottle of gin. The drunkard snatches up the bottle with greedy hands and pours the alcohol sloppily into his drink. The tall man raises his brow, his only show of disapproval.
“Are you going to thank me?” the tall man asks. His companion responds by slurping his drink, quite loudly, and slamming the glass on the bar. He struggles to find the English words.
“Many thanks, comrade,” the drunkard says, his accent heavy upon his tongue.
The tall man pours himself a glass and raises it to the man. “To what are we drinking, friend?”
