J.C. Rodriguez

I've been meaning to post an excerpt for quite some time, but I was finding difficulty in deciding what it would be. I wanted to choose an extended sequence that really captures the overall tone of the book without too much being given away. Well, I finally made a decision. Here's the entirety of Chapter 15 from the final draft of 'Bury Me in Filkar.' I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

'Bury Me in Filkar' Excerpt #1
"The Song of the Sellsword"
Written by J.C. Rodriguez
--------------------------------

She was of blonde hair and light hazel eyes, with a slender figure formed from a combination of striding down long highways and the emaciation that comes along with the life of an impoverished artist. Despite her features of beauty, her most striking feature was how she made her living; her voice. Angelic and boastful, it was enough to calm even the most volatile of tempers. Fr**ga watched from a corner booth, the shadow of her cloak hiding her face as she sipped a glass of wine. She observed as the bard sat upon a wooden stool and tuned her lute, plucking gently at the strings until she found the right sound. Linnea took in a deep breath and exhaled, looking up with a bright smile that caught the attention of every man and woman seated on the tavern floor. They looked upon her with envy, such beauty rare within their realm, and both patiently and silently waited for her to begin her song. Her eyes surveyed her crowd as she began, strumming her lute fiercely, starting off with a jig that was well known across the country.

“He spun me a tale of woe,
He said he loved me so,
But I could see right through him…
He said his name was Monroe,
He carried an old crossbow,
And I say his end was quite grim!”

“But it was soon that we had learned,
His reputation was unearned,
And every word of his was a lie!
He boasted and he bragged,
All for drinks and a s**g,
And we were soon glad to see him die!”

“One night a true man walked in,
With a longsword and a grin,
Saying he was hunting for a bandit!
The bandit’s name was Monroe,
A large debt he did owe,
And the debtor could no longer stand it!”

“The sellsword had come to collect,
And an attitude he would correct,
Leaving with the money or Monroe’s head!
Monroe tried shooting first,
His drunk aim just the worst,
And the sellsword struck forth and he sure bled!”

“His head rolled across the floor,
An exhibit of blood and gore,
And the sellsword was met with local fame!
We all bought him a round,
And each drink he did down,
Leaving with another bounty claimed!”

Her song was punctuated with thunderous applause, her response a bow and only a moment before returning to strumming her lute, an interlude into her next song. Fr**ga was speechless, not once in her life coming across such talent, and truly admired the spirit of the young woman which added even more to her beauty. She envied her and what she saw as true joy and a life fulfilled, adventures had, and continued to listen on, knowing this would be the final night any would hear her songs and stories.

***

She continued to listen on the entire evening, her jigs carrying into the early hours of the morning, when suddenly her rhythm and tune was slowed, the plucking going soft and intimate compared to the previous rowdy tunes. The demeanor of the remaining crowd grew solemn, all deep within their drinks, not expecting what was to come next from Linnea’s previously lively and rowdy performance. Several cheers from drunken spectators interrupted the mellow disposition of most in the room, those who whooped catching glares from the others who had picked up the change in tone of the performance. The minstrel kept her eyes on the floor, playing a soft melody, before turning back up to the remaining crowd with the shadow of a smile.

“I greatly appreciate your kindness tonight. It’s been quite some time since I’ve received such a warm and welcoming reception…”

She paused momentarily, looking back to the floor as she gently plucked the strings.

“This will be my last song this evening,” Linnea said softly, “It’s my most recent… Something I’ve been working on the last few weeks on the road. I hope you enjoy it.”

“If I had a coin for every life I saved,
I’d just have one for my own…
My body may not yet feed the worms,
But I know the grass will still grow.”

“The sun would still set,
Children would still fret,
If I were to disappear…
The rivers would still run,
I’d just be missed by one,
The one I hold so dear.”

“I hope it’s from old age,
A slow and final stage,
Wrapped up safe in your arms…
A blissful life worth living,
For my life to you I’m giving,
For you always kept me from harm.”

“What beauty you provide,
Sitting at my side,
My fondest thoughts when I am away…
The sweetness of your scent,
Your words with accent,
These are what get me through the day.”

“If you had a coin for each life you saved,
You’d have at least one for mine…
I’m glad that I’m not yet buried,
So I can give you the rest of my time.”

Those who remained to see the end of the show clapped heartily, each one who heard the song with a different image of someone important to them in their head. In Fr**ga’s mind, thoughts of Valerica lingered, along with their most recent encounter and the embrace they shared in the linen shop. It distracted her momentarily as she stared into the cracks in the wood of the corner table, daydreaming of a life of love and safety. It was only when she came across her mind did she find regret.

“Thank you all!” the minstrel concluded, standing up from the stool with her lute and walking off stage towards the bar. Although few stuck around to see the end of the show, those who did cheered with a jovial applause.

Fr**ga’s thoughts of Valerica subsided and her focus on her contract returned, raising her gaze from the table to the minstrel sitting at the bar, being poured a glass of grain alcohol. She began plotting the young woman’s demise, a variety of tools at her disposal ranging from her blades to toxic poisons she had prepared for any occasion, some similar to the one she had utilized in her first assassination and others far more subtle. She had several hours until the sun would rise and the cover of shadows would be eliminated, giving her a wide window of time to complete her job. For now, she felt it best to observe and let the minstrel enjoy her last post-show drink.

An hour passed, and the bar became vacant apart from Linnea, Fr**ga, and the tired, mustached man behind the counter closing up shop. The minstrel had had her glass filled enough times to bring a sway in her body atop the stool she sat upon. Her eyes were glazed over and her expression was entirely void of emotion as she stared blankly into the mirror behind the bar that stretched beneath the shelves of liquor. After her last gulp, the bartender removed the glass from her hands.

“It’s about time you go, Miss Hjoll…” the bartender said with a sigh as he wiped down the glass.

“Yeah? Go where?” the minstrel scoffed, “I haven’t a coin to my name and you won’t rent to me anymore.”

“Maybe you’d hold onto your money longer if you didn’t drink it away at the end of each show.”

Linnea rolled her eyes and stood up from her stool, grabbing her lute by the neck with a bit of a stumble as she bent over.

“Just pay me so I can eat tomorrow,” the bard demanded.

The bartender scoffed and reached beneath the bar, opening up his lockbox and removing six gold pieces before tossing them onto the counter in front of Linnea.

“That’s it!?”

“You downed a whole bottle by yourself, you’re damned right that’s it!”

With a groan, she picked up the coins and placed them in a small purse she hid within her lute.

“Pleasure as always, Martin,” Linnea snapped before stumbling out the door.

With a sigh of annoyance, the bartender looked away from Linnea’s exit and towards Fr**ga in the back.

“Hey, we’re closing,” he stated bluntly, “Get a room or get out.”

Without a word, Fr**ga stood up from her seat and made her way towards the door, ignoring the stares of the bartender. In a moment, she found herself in the streets of a higher end neighborhood of Skarvahn, the Ebony Maple Inn it’s crown jewel nestled amongst countless manors with iron fences surrounding the properties. She was not hard to spot, stumbling ahead down the road before collapsing alongside a wall that bordered the brick street. She groaned as she fell to a seat away from the curb, completely in a daze.

Fr**ga’s first impression of Linnea had faded, realizing the once thought to be peppy and joyful woman was entirely set on self-destruction. Reluctance lingered in her mind, wondering what she could have possibly done to receive the stalking of an assassin, and the pathetic display of the sloppy drunk she was made Fr**ga feel pity. She wondered if she’d be doing her a favor, her thought punctuated by a belch from the bard who began talking to herself.

“Alright, Linnea!” she exclaimed in the empty street, “C’mon, girl! Get your ass up!”

She struggled to stand to her feet, but made herself vertical once more with a bit of a sway.

“C’mon! Let’s find a bed!”

Fr**ga followed, keeping a distance between her and the drunken woman. Her steps were muffled and she melded in with the darkness, hardly illuminated by the lamp posts every fifty feet. They were the only souls out at that hour, but only one of them made herself known with muttering, aggressive self-talk, and uneven steps that continued her path towards anywhere that could serve as a proper place to rest. Eventually, the minstrel had settled for an empty stable that Fr**ga witnessed her nearly fall into, collapsing down upon a pile of hay. Her intoxicated, mumbled babbling continued for a few more minutes before fading to snores.

Fr**ga stood there frozen, hidden within the shadows while she watched the woman sleep. She hadn’t felt any hesitation a couple weeks prior when she poisoned Lord Vermoi, bringing his life to a dreadful end with a grand audience, but something gnawed at her mind, telling her that taking this life was wrong. It was true that she really knew nothing about her apart from her striking looks, heavenly voice, and heavy drinking, but she also knew the punishment of refusing a contract; her own life.

Fr**ga had finally settled on a poison, its main ingredient taetian flower, a deadly flora from far beyond the borders of Adrahlmah. One drop in the ear would be all it would take to bring a victim’s life to a peaceful end. She had felt that the poor woman didn’t deserve a violent end by blade, even if it would be instant and in her sleep. She wished to keep her dagger clean that evening, and with the vial in hand, stepped gradually towards Linnea. She was sprawled out on her side, her hands cradling her lute, with a small notebook that fell from her pocket lying on the ground near her feet. Fr**ga bent down and picked up the leatherbound book and opened it up, flipping through the pages to find countless songs, stories, and poems scrawled out sloppily in ink, barely legible to her eyes.

She was startled by a snort, freezing and looking down to see Linnea shifting in the hay and peering through hazy vision. Her eyes widened when she saw the figure before her and her mouth opened for a scream, but she was quickly silenced by Fr**ga’s speed in drawing her dagger and cutting her throat. The minstrel clutched at her neck as blood poured out between her fingers and she choked, gasping for breath. Fr**ga’s heart was pounding, feeling as if it was about to burst from her chest. As Linnea’s life faded, Fr**ga leapt back up to her feet and paced quickly down the road away from the stable, dropping the notebook in the gutter. In an instant, the water running down the side of the street consumed the leatherbound pages, causing all written within to fade into smears of black nothingness.

"The Believer"

I usually don't share things not related to something I'm working on, but R.I.P. to a real one

I always thought Matt Perry was an underrated performer and wanted to see him take on more unique roles. I remember being so happy to hear his voice in New Vegas, as one of the series’ most interesting, stand-out characters. He was a fan of the games and they helped him through some pretty fu***ng awful periods of his life.

Worth noting that no drugs were found at the scene of his death. Anyone with a friend who has struggled with addiction and gone through the process of getting sober knows that it is far and away one of the hardest things a human can do. Don’t spread rumours about overdoses or drug parties. He put in the work, did the difficult thing and got clean - that should be his legacy.

RIP Matt Perry ❤️

Was looking at this on my wall today and realized I never scanned it or anything so it was never on my PC apart from a s**tty photo taken with my phone.

So, here's the coolest thing I've ever drawn.

It's titled 'We Meet Again' and is a representation of what I personally believe it feels like to combat Bipolar Disorder, a condition I live with. I could go on and on about so many different aspects of this piece and what they mean, but I'll let you just figure those parts out for yourself.

Been taking a break from writing the past week to work on a little New Vegas mod. I haven't worked on any mods for about a decade, but it's all coming back to me pretty quickly.

What does the mod do?

Well I'm glad you asked!

"Henderson Shipping Co." adds the ability to become a caravan driver to the game, giving you a multitude of routes and goods to deliver all across the Mojave Wasteland. I was surprised that a mod like this doesn't already exist, so I'm taking it upon myself to build one. So far it's pretty bare bones, with just a few routes and pretty simple mechanics (1. Pick up cargo from box, 2. Load cargo onto brahmin, 3. Deliver cargo to another box, 4. Profit), but in just a few days I've realized I've really got something fun and immersive in the works.

In time I plan on adding far more functions, such as the ability to hire guards, buy more brahmin to be able to carry more cargo, and maybe even throw in a unique companion. The story is primarily based around a subplot of a New Vegas fanfiction I wrote in high school, but it won't be anywhere as edgy as the fanfiction, just a simple mod for simple players who want to do a lot of walking, occasionally kill some baddies that try to take your stuff, and not make much money while doing so.

Here's the first two shipping stalls I threw together today: One at the Mojave Outpost, the other at Freeside's North Gate. They may not look like much, but they will lay the foundation for what's to come. If I ever finish it (lol) expect to find it on Nexus.

"I’m a rat and I’ve wandered into the wrong sewer pipe, running and running as fast as I can with a rush of liquid murk close behind, spelling out my doom. My world is flooding and the only plausible escape routes are too evasive for my mind, dulled from years of the consumption of various toxins. There’s a large crack in the cement, a rusted grate, even other pipes, but I can only see these paths as traps. They must be. You can’t elude the abyss just by changing course. You need to move forward and only forward. To even look in any other direction will waste too much precious time.

I keep running straight down the same pipe. My fur is soaking from the riptide on my tail and up ahead the single pipe splits into two. I know that no matter which way I go, I’ll still be running… but I’m so tired. Not just physically, but mentally. I can’t help but wonder about the possibilities I avoided with a mind set on inevitable destruction. I don’t take either of the exits ahead, I run headfirst into the median and let the water engulf me." - J.C. Rodriguez

Do you use Wattpad?

Well I wish I didn't either, but unfortunately there aren't many good websites to make a portfolio of your writing without actually making your own damn website. Even if I may never get any organic reads because it's not fanfiction, I'm going to use that website to post excerpts and short stories regardless.

HOWEVER!

If they're short enough, they'll also be posted here, like this one.

This is an excerpt from a novel that will never see the light of day. I finished it a few years back, but deleted most traces of it. However, I still find snippets here and there, and they're usually pretty decent.

This one is called 'The Siren.'

https://www.wattpad.com/story/354409873-couch-surfing-usa-excerpt-2

'The Siren'
An excerpt from 'Couch Surfing USA'
Written by J.C. Rodriguez

-----------------------------------------

The entire night I gazed upon her shimmering there in the corner with her friends, rarely venturing out into the rest of the bar besides the occasional trek to the bathroom through a sea of inebriated, wild eyes and maelstroms of slurred shouts and shrieks. I usually preferred this bar for the quiet Thursdays, but never paid mind to the university in the next town over. School must be back in session so I guess for the time being I’ll have to deal with the waves of alcohol-powered youth and the sharks that slip in with them.

Despite the constant annoyances from all the other patrons, I found just the sight of her alone soothed me. She would occasionally look back at me with her warm, green eyes and smile, but that’d be the end of it until our eyes locked again later. I played out a scenario in my head where I actually had the courage to go up and talk to her. We’d talk through the night, she’d show interest, but play hard to get. I’d text her the next morning, we’d meet for coffee, and maybe something would go from there… but I usually try to cut my imagination off after the coffee. I didn't want to get my hopes up too much, so I turned my gaze back to the bottom of that half-empty bottle on the counter.

I’m down to nothing more but cheap beer for the rest of the night, and I’m not sure I want this night to last much longer. For hours I’ve been drowning in here beneath the waves, my only solace being the silenced siren at the other end of the world. I turned back once more, hoping to calm the storm in my brain, but she was gone. Her and her friends slipped out into the night, never to be seen by these eyes again. I don’t know what drew me towards her. Maybe she really was a siren, trying to lead me into the rocks and send me beneath the ocean… Maybe it would have been worth it.

My son turns 13 today

What better way to celebrate than with a fresh playthrough and testing a new plethora of mods that are sure to bring plentiful CTD's

Happy 13th birthday, Fallout: New Vegas

I promise I'm still working on the 'Vultures and Wolves' sequel, it's just a really big project and is going to take a lot of time. However, 'Disco is Dead' is a really small project and shouldn't take much time.

Wow, almost at a hundred likes! As soon as I get there, expect a decent sized excerpt from the final draft of 'Bury Me in Filkar', my next novel that will be hitting the shelves of the internet this holiday season.

Forty pages in. Here's an excerpt.

Disco is Dead
Pt. IV
'A Night in the Red Light'
Excerpt #1

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The diner’s air conditioning was hardly enough to keep the sweat from dripping down Markie’s forehead, cradling the bridge of his nose before he watched it drop into his coffee. It was a hundred and fifteen, a record breaking scorcher for that particular day in Los Angeles. Between the unbearable heat and the hangover that threw his mind through a meat grinder, he was hardly able to focus on his agent Max’s hollering over the premature end of a career that had chewed him up and spat him out over the past ten years on the silver screen. With a groan, he leaned back in his chair, letting his head rest atop the wooden divider that split them from the line of empty booths behind them. It wasn’t until James’ name was brought up when Markie suddenly bolted back into consciousness through raw fury.

“James? Are you serious? That fu***ng cockroach?” Markie snapped, groaning as he once more leaned forward, “No, no! No, no, no, no, no! I’m not gonna be upstaged by that shriveling little dweeb!”

“Well Markie, if you cared half as much for your roles as you do your drinking habit, I wouldn’t even have to intervene!” Max informed, “As you age in this business, you have to accept moving on towards different roles. I mean hell, I’m staring at your first gray hair right now, so if it ain’t James moving in on your parts, it’ll just be someone else!”

“Nothing a little hair dye can’t fix,” Markie smirked, “Listen, I know I’ve been a little bit-”

“Little bit of a s**thead?”

“Eh, I’d say unreliable, I know that, but gimme a week and I, the fresh faced Markie Schmitz, will be back in action!” Markie declared enthusiastically, snapping his fingers.

“We’re not moving back production another week, kid. Heh, can’t even call you a kid anymore! You’re the same age as my son and he actually has kids!” Max laughed, chortling heartily, “You’re on the lot tomorrow at 7AM sharp or they're recasting. You want one more chance? That’s it.”

“Ugh,” Markie groaned, “Fine… 7AM sharp. You got it.”

Markie dropped his head to the table, continuing to groan before being interrupted by their waitress. She looked the type for the town, in her late thirties with crows feet that could mask her and display her as middle aged, another failed actress cursed to be nothing more than a cog in the food industry.

“Chocolate chip pancakes, sunny side up eggs, and sausage?” she chimed cheerfully, looking between the two men before Max raised his wrinkled hand.

“Right here!”

“Of course!” she smiled as she placed the meal before him before turning towards Markie, “And the french toast…”

She stopped mid sentence, looking bewildered at the man.

“Holy s**t, you’re Markie Schmitz,” the waitress bluntly stated, blushing as her breathing became slightly erratic, “Oh my god, I’ve seen all your movies!”

Markie smiled, slicking back his sweat matted hair with his hand before returning her infatuation with a devilish smile.

“Heh, always nice to meet a fan,” he replied before shaking her hand gently, “All of them, huh?”

“Oh, yeah! A Dame to Die For, Santa Monica Scrubs, SuperNova 19, but I gotta say, my favorite will always be Vegas, Baby… You were excellent.”

“Ah, you’re only saying that because I was in the n**e three times before the credits rolled,” Markie laughed, “So that one was your favorite, huh?”

“Damn right it was.”

“Did I already surmise why?”

“Maybe, maybe not…”

Markie grinned, looking her up and down.

“What time do you get off work?” Markie asked slyly.

“Oh my fu***ng god, everywhere we go…” Max muttered.

“What?” Markie chuckled, “I can’t talk to a fan?”

“I’ll leave you two be,” the waitress grinned, “But I get off at 9, if you’re in the neighborhood.”

“I might have to be now…” Markie smiled before Max’s snapping fingers interrupted his gaze of the waitress departing.

“Not why we’re here!” Max shouted, “For Christ’s sake, keep your eye on the money, kid!”

“Not everything is about money, Max…” Markie replied with a scoff.

“Yeah, and not everything is about fu***ng random fans or snorting your weight in coke!” Max lashed back, taking a sip from his coffee with a snort, “I called you out here because I’m trying to help you!”

“I know, I know, second chances and such! What, I can’t take time to say ‘hi’ to a fan?”

“You can say hi to fans, but I’d also like to point out the only ones you bother saying hi to you also try to f**k!” Max clamored, his shouting bringing an awkward silence among the restaurant.

“Alright, okay, point taken,” Markie replied softly, “Just keep your voice down. Don’t want more attention.”

“Then you shouldn’t have become an actor,” Max replied as he dug his fork into a breakfast sausage before raising it to his mouth and devouring the whole piece with a single bite, “The way you’re going, you won’t be one for much longer! I stick my neck out for you day in and day out, and what do I get?”

He paused momentarily, chewing, looking back to Markie.

“I don’t know, you-”

“Nada! Zilch!” Max exclaimed, his mouth still full, “I get you being late, you hassling the crewmen, picking fights with producers! The other day, I went into makeup to find you, and the whole place stank of whiskey! You’re fu***ng this up, Markie! And I hate it! I hate it because I know you got a good head on your shoulders and I know you can knock crowds dead, but if you keep slipping up, you’ll just be another hasbeen, and lemme tell ya, this town has enough of those!”

Markie sighed and looked down at his French toast.

“Look, I’ve never had an easy ride,” Markie began, “I know I haven’t been good, it’s obvious. I can turn it around though. I’ve turned around worse.”

“And that’s what I’m trying to say, kid!” Max sighed, “You think I don’t already know that? You came to this town with nothing!”

Markie took a deep breath, knowing all too well he came to the town with far more than nothing.

“I can be better… I will be better,” Markie said, looking back up to Max with a smile, “Thank you, Max. I don’t say that often enough.”

“You’re damn right you don’t,” Max said with a belch.

“Just, whatever you do, don’t replace me with James. F**k James.”

“Giancarlo DeLuca…” he heard said alongside him from a man who had approached them, previously unseen. Fear shot down Markie’s spine, hearing his birth name that hadn’t been uttered by anyone in decades. He looked away from his French toast and to a man wearing a black suit, quickly noticing the gun in his hand which was raised in his direction. Ten shots were fired in quick succession, roughly three quarters of the magazine unloaded into his abdomen and sternum, striking every vital organ but his heart, giving him a few final moments to witness his murderer.

Markie’s sight with his last breath examined his face; short, black hair, hazel eyes, five o’clock shadow rounding a sharp jawline, and a scar that stretched across the side of his skull and through a missing ear; a face he thought was dead and buried nearly twenty years prior, reports of his demise apparently exaggerated. The shooter scowled as he put the pistol to Markie’s face and fired the last three rounds within the magazine, putting a hole between his cheek and right ear, another that pierced through his jaw that shattered his teeth and severed his tongue, and a third and final shot directly through his eye, the bullet exiting the back of his skull and blowing bits of brain, bone, and a burst of blood upon the brown, pleather booth.

Max screamed out in terror, his client’s blood splattered across his frail, round glasses as he looked up to the shooter. The gunman turned the pistol to him and squeezed down on the trigger once more, the hammer clacking against an empty chamber, each bullet that was once within the firearm now lodged within the co**se of the moviestar.

“Hmm… Lucky you,” the man stated as he tossed the empty 9mm pistol onto the table and walked out of the diner. There were no screams, no rushing to call the police, nothing more than a shared disbelief of the murder that had taken place before all within and a deafening silence.

This is a story about what I believe to be the saddest place in Portland. I changed the name to not p**s off the owners of this "fine" establishment, but anyone who visits my apartment will receive a story of this place, especially as it's in view from my balcony.

"The Coyote Den"

------------------------------

Stepping into the Coyote Den feels as if stepping out from your reality and into another; a plane of existence wrapped in a time loop, as if nothing in the world had progressed since the early two thousands, doomed to repeat the same generic, pop-country soundtracked stretch of ignorance for the rest of time. It is here that video lottery and cheap, watered down whiskey reign supreme, bleeding the bar’s inhabitants of their life a few hours at a time, whittling away at their being like a freshly sharpened blade against a block of wood yet to be sculpted. The concrete floored, thousand or so square feet of disparity emits an aroma within its interior and the surrounding parking lots and alleys that smells of black, murky fryer oil that hasn’t been changed in weeks, topped with the musk of stale to***co. Such a scent has been lost to the indoors for years outside of this anomaly of time, but somehow, it has clung permanently within these walls despite the outlawing of indoor smoking.

The two keepers of this realm vary greatly. An elderly, Mexican man controls the kitchen you can only see a glimpse of through a set of swinging, double doors. He is responsible for the intake of thousands upon thousands of calories worth of deep fried cuisine, sure to clog the arteries of those trapped within. Out front behind the bar sits a tired woman on her phone, her age indecipherable, seemingly only capable of single word answers to any questions thrown in her direction. Her hair was once green a hundred showers before, now a congealed mix of dark brown, turquoise, and several shades of yellow. The colors upon her crown are the most lively attraction in the bar, contrasting the drab, undecorated, stone walls and windows coated in outward facing posters, rejecting any form of natural light.

Although in no control, a single man at the bar has made this his own domain through the shaping of the stool’s cushion beneath him and the slightest respect, or perhaps pity, he had earned for being such a loyal customer. It is at that stool that every day begins and ends, with little to do rather than stare at the bottom of a glass and think; think of everything that went right, wrong, and all else in between. At some points he closes his eyes and sighs, reopening them to faintly glance beyond the drink in his palm, before the fear turns him back to the whiskey. He saves the courage to look away for the bartender on her approach as he finishes the glass with a strong gulp.

“Another?” she asks.

“Another,” he replies.

After an elongated blink, he opens his eyes to another glass being poured before him.

“Last one,” he claims.

“Sure,” she replies.