Drunken Talks: Whores in the shades

The bartender says, “Yes sir. I would want to. Why don’t you liberate yourself off from this burden by telling it out?

“Liberation has in itself a phase of captivity, a one in a state of flux”, John mumbles, pulling in the smoke with great vigour and producing a cloud out of it which metamorphosizes into a muddled form and consummates with its long lost love, oblivion.
Unable to comprehend the meaning, the bartender scratches his head and says,” Of course, yeah, now that we’ve established that, can we set forth with your story?”

John blows a snort out his nose and answers, “Look pal, I appreciate you serving me at this late time of the hour, but you just whored yourself out for money. Do you realise that? That happens to bother me. A man’s got to have a code. And if money’s your code, trust is far from your palate, according to me. So, my Shakespearian tale as you said, this art of mine cannot be unveiled before you.”

“Well…You have got nothing to lose right? I mean, who can I possibly disclose this to?”
“Trust plays a fickle role in my code. I couldn’t risk putting it out before the people who could actually make me see a tomorrow. There’s no going back for me. It’s bleak, a surreal mix of real and an unattainable unreal. “John says, stopping at this and calming himself down. “Let me not get into it anymore for the borehole drills deeper and…”

He breaks at this point and laughs manically, almost falling off the chair. The oil has come out of its hibernation flushing with its heart content. The bartender looks at him like a piece of lunatic who should be chained and thinks, “Shackles. This man needs to be constrained before he infests anyone else with his doltish psychosis”.

“But your code’s against mine. So I can’t. Nothing personal lad” John finishes, finally being able to settle himself, shaking off the hysterical possession. A Hysteria stemming from a root that can uproot the greatest of trees.

With an uptight straight face, the bartender says,” The pub’s closed for now. Leave, now. Take your pack on the way.” He throws the Marlboro across the table with an incredulous repellant force. His self-conceit must have kicked in. He couldn’t absorb in the hurling spells, produced in a tenuous cloudy manner which definitely did the job for the bartender.

John reluctantly gets up from his chair which creaked at his movement, drops in the Marlboro into his coat pocket and moves towards the door, in a series of drunkard steps which could have put the termination graph to shame owing to its erratic nature.

“Fare thee well, kid” John says, pushing the door out on his way journeying, not knowing about his destination whereabouts. He hardly could care about it at that moment.

“Blabbering Drunkard git”, a scorned mutter appears out under the breath of the Bartender.
An ocean of pitch darkness greets John when he makes his way out from the bar. All that appears to glow is a lamp pole standing, marking its stance the determined to fight against it. However it doesn’t stand a chance before murk of the smoky, cold night.

Enclosing this harbor of a thick cold wave raking his face, he searches for the lost Morlboro in pockets and takes one out. Feeling like a halfwit, he goes in for into his pockets again, exploring for a pack of matches it has concealed inside. Finding it, he triumphantly opens it, takes one of the many in it out and slides it against its beloved surface, producing a blazing fire. This consumes the cigarette hanging between his cold dried lips.

“Din don, Din don Din don”, the Church bells tolls off far away, breaking the quietude’s virginity, in the background.