The Last Philosopher

The drunk-fellows

As Earl approached Bern's, he took a second to admire the sturdy timber of the two storey building. The front had the feel of a log-cabin. The kind he could see himself spending his old age in. It wasn't the most impressive building on the square, but it had oodles of charm.

Stepping onto the wood deck, it sounded off with a familiar creak. Which made the town drunk-fellows straighten up a bit. The order of perpetual drunkenness was in the middle of their all-day, every-day, meet and drink. Hanging out under the shade of the only roofed porch on the square.

The way they were glued to their seats, it would've been easy to think the rat-arsed faces looking up at him lived on the porch. Earl leaned against one of the log-pillars and gave them 'the look'. Most of his job involved intimidating drunks into doing what was best for them.

"Gents, lass, not causing any trouble are we," he asked tipping his hat at the only woman in the group.

Every town he'd ever been to had a group of drunk-fellows. And they all had that one lass who could out-drink, out-fight, and out-spit the lot of them. This one was no different, if he had to tangle with any of them, he preferred it wasn't Lisa. Because she fought dirty.

Seamus, the elder statesman of the Stagna drunks, took his mouth off his pint. Never a good sign. "Ha'r'ya marschal?"

The ancient with a face like a smacked arse was the closest thing Earl had to a nemesis. He could never tell if the scruffy man's talent for slurring his words was real or just for show.

"Nische drink for a day? Ischn't it? Everyone saychs heysch to the niche peas-officher."

Seamus lifted his hat, showing off his bald head and almost toothless smile. The black top-hat would've looked out of place on everyone in Stagna, except maybe the undertaker. But even this threadbare one was strikingly out of place in a group where everyone wore the cheapest model of straw. Not even the drunk-fellows would get caught without a hat.

The others waited with bated breath, because everyone knew the geezer was taking the pish. They were all waiting for Earl or Seamus to make the next move. Finally shedding the last shreds of subtlety. Seamus pulled out a cracked and broken monocle from his vest pocket, and put it to his eye. His hazy gaze trying to focus on Earl.

"Are you drunker than usual Seamus? I wouldn't have thought that was possible."

Their not so fearless leader, hiccuped in response and almost slid out of his seat in the process. The only steady thing about him was his drinking-arm. How he always managed to kept his pint perfectly level was unclear. It could be the years of practice, or it was just the sole purpose of his existence. Rumours claimed Seamus stayed wankered even without drink. If true, it was surprising he'd survived this long. Alcohol was without a doubt the leading cause of death in Agalaland, and the social suicide of refusing to drink was a close second.

Taking his hand off his whip, Earl de-escalated the situation. They weren't hurting anyone, except his pride, and it could stand to take a little hurt. So, instead of dignifying the hooch-goblyn with any more inane banter, he pushed through the swing doors into Bern's Bucket O'Beer.

As soon as he was inside, sniggering and hooting broke out on the porch. Regretting his decision, he was about to turn back. Because left to their own vices the drunk-fellows could get out of hand. But the familiar sight of Fannie behind her korzan-teak bar, made him forget about the porch dwellers.

Updated: 29.10.2023