Look 'bad luck' up in the dictionary. Go on. We'll wait. See there? That picture of an awkward college student tripping over his own feet? That's Peter Parker. He's majoring in chemical engineering, and by some stroke of (you guessed it) bad luck, t...
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After being reminded of his best friend's fate, Peter became desperate to clear his mind of the troubles that weighed him down. Usually that would entail a tub of ice-cream and a Mythbusters marathon, but that idea was briskly tossed aside when Annabelle noticed his sullen mood and insisted that they go to a pub.
Peter rarely drank. In fact, he could count on one hand the amount of times that he'd actually gone inside of a pub. It had simply never interested him...and no one wanted to see a wigged-out Spider-Man falling off his webs. Today, however, Peter would have done anything to silence his own guilt.
The place Annabelle had dragged him to was drab and tasteless. Dim bulbs behind red-tasseled lamp shades barely illuminated each of a dozen maroon vinyl booths, which marched along one wall towards the murky front windows. Chipped tables anchored the booths in place. Opposite this was a long, scarred wooden bar with uncomfortable-looking stools. Behind which, sitting on glass shelves in front of a cloudy mirror, were endless rows of bottles, each looking as forlorn as the folks for whom they waited.
Peter was suddenly consumed by the strong odors of liquor and tobacco smoke, along with the weaker scents of cleaning chemicals and vomit. He then spotted a scrawny bartender with droopy eyelids picking his teeth and chatting quietly with a woman seated at the bar.
"What's your poison?" Annabelle asked, readying her bright pink credit card. Peter had no idea where she had managed to find a pink credit card, but he liked to imagine that she had somehow spray painted the whole thing.
"Uhh... I don't really know." Peter admitted sheepishly. Due to his previously modest consumption of alcohol, he wasn't particularly knowledgeable on all the different beverages available at a bar. He did, however, recall a fond memory of his Uncle Ben - who would allow Peter one single sip of beer every Christmas from the age of thirteen. "Beer, I suppose. I don't really care what brand it is."
"Ew...okay." Annabelle shivered, obviously not keen on his choice. "I'll get the drinks while you find us a booth."
Mentally preparing himself for the effect this night was going to have on his mind, Peter opted for a booth right near the door (so that if he embarrassed himself, he could swiftly escape without drawing too much attention). With that in mind, Peter had almost started reconsidering this whole venture until Annabelle returned with two pints of beer and two colourful cocktails. She managed to place them all on the table without spilling a single drop.
"I buy the rounds in sets of two, hope you don't mind." Annabelle answered before Peter even got the chance to ask. "It means I won't have to keep getting up to get another drink every few minutes...and two's an even number. I like even numbers."
"Yeah, all good." Peter replied, though he wasn't entirely thrilled at the idea of drinking double his usual limit. "Won't the second one get warm though?"
"That's why you gotta drink it fast." Annabelle stated simply, and with a playful wink, she picked up her Midori Splice and downed half of it in less than five seconds.
