Last Round

I was at the bar again, same damn place I always end up when the day has gone to shit and the night is too fucking quiet. The jukebox spat out some old blues track, probably the only thing left in this dump with any soul.

Tony, the kid behind the bar, was half-ass wiping down the counter, staring into nowhere like he had better shit to do, but we both knew he didn’t. None of us did.

I dragged myself onto the stool in the darkened corner, where the light flickers like some poor bastard’s getting fried out back in the electric chair. The stool was hard as hell, but I didn’t give a fuck anymore. My back’s already fucked up, so what’s another hour of pain?

“Whiskey. Straight,” I said. Just the hooch and me, and that’s all, no distractions.

“Life is short,” I thought. “No time for chasers or any of that fancy crap, straight up, no ice, no frills. The kind that stings as it goes down, reminding you you’re still here, whether you like it or not.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “How’s the wife?” he asked, barely glancing up as he poured.

I snorted, “Still fucking breathing, I guess.”

Tony didn’t laugh. He never does. Smart kid.

Linda left me six years ago. She said I was a fucking bastard, said I drank too much, was lazy, and she wasn’t wrong. She walked out like I didn’t matter, and I let her because what the hell could I say?

She tore a hole in me, one I could never fill, so I just kept drinking and kept showing up at my job and here. I kept doing what I do best: playing fuck it all.

I took a gulp of whiskey and let it burn its way down, let it sit in the pit of my gut where everything had gone rotten.

A couple in the booth caught my eye. The woman wore too much makeup, and the guy had too many tattoos. They laughed like idiots, but there was something off—like they were trying too hard. It made me wanna puke, tell them to shut the fuck up, get a room at the flop house across the street, but I didn’t. Who gives a shit?

The door opened, and some guy stumbled in. His face was all kinds of fucked up—black eye, busted lip. He looked like he just had his ass handed to him in a back alley. He dropped onto the stool next to me and tapped the bar. Tony poured him a drink, no questions asked. Nobody gives a fuck here, and why I like it here.

“Fight?” I asked because it seemed like the only thing worth saying.

He chuckled, low and bitter. “Yeah. With myself,” he said, taking a long swig like the whiskey was the only thing keeping him upright. “Guess I fucking lost.”

I nodded and took another drink. “We all fucking lose. But you keep going. That’s the game.”

He turned to me then and looked at me. His eyes were dark, hollow. Like he’d seen some serious shit like maybe he’d been in a war with himself for years and didn’t know how to get out.

“I don’t know, man,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t fucking know anymore.”

The couple in the booth started yelling, voices raised over some bullshit—maybe he grabbed her too hard, or she found lipstick on his shirt. It didn’t matter. Their fight was just as phony as their laughter. Tony dragged his feet around the bar like he was about to break it up, but we both knew he wasn’t trying. He didn’t give two shits. None of us did.

I drained my glass, slamming it on the counter. Tony looked over and nodded like he knew I’d be back tomorrow, or maybe he thought I wouldn’t even make it through the night. Neither of us cared either way.

I stepped outside, and the cold slapped me across the face like an insult. I shoved my hands in my pockets and started walking. The sound of my boots on the concrete was the only thing that made sense, a steady beat in a world filled with fucking noise.

The streets were empty except for a few drunks down the block, laughing and shouting at nothing. The flickering fluorescent lights at the entrance of another bar illuminated a group of drunks, their raucous laughter and off-key singing piercing through the night. But that’s all we got left, a city that’s is just as fucked as we are, and that’s the goddamn truth.

The streetlights cast that sick orange glow like the whole city was in some bullshit made-for-television nightmare it could not wake up from. The air stunk of piss and exhaust, a mix of cheap liquor and bad decisions.

I walked past another bar and heard the laughter, the clinking of glass, all that bullshit that comes with pretending life doesn’t suck. The stench of stale beer, and cigarette smoke, wafted toward me like a cheap cologne on an even cheaper whore, mingling with the sharp tang of the nearby sea.

But I knew the truth. No matter how far I walked, I’d always end up back at the bar because at least it was familiar, and at least it was real, the same shit, but different night. And that is the thing—no matter how fucked up it gets, you just keep going. And if you are lucky, maybe you’ll forget why.

And that’s all you can do. And that’s what I do.