(I decided to follow Frants’ idea.)
The surly drunk at the end of the bar yammered on, spitting and cursing to himself. It was his usual m.o. — wander in around mid-afternoon, get boiled as an owl, rail on about the various people out to get him. Today, he focused his bile on the memory of ‘Burt’: “…that bastard left me there, lying up against the tree.” The drunk looked up from his watered glass of whiskey. “Sat for nine hours, swearing to myself that I’d kill the sonofabitch if I ever caught up to him.”
Lost in thought, he rubbed the week-old stubble on his weathered chin. The drunk sniffed, lazily turning his gaze on two younger men who had bellied up about six stools down. Though they’d been listening intently for the past twenty minutes or so, the guys avoided making eye contact with him.
The bartender, without looking up from his paper, spoke. “Well? Did’ja finally catch up to him?”
The drunk continued his cold, glassy-eyed stare at the two men as he finished his drink. Without blinking, he licked his lips. “Y’goddamn right I did.”
Laughing quietly to himself, the bartender unfolded his paper and flipped to another section. Shaking his head, he spoke again. “Logan, somethin’ ain’t right with you.”
