The Country from Hell
You see him immediately when you enter the bar, a black-eyed Frosty in a tight leather jacket. He jokes loudly in his ugly caveman language, leering at the other customers, daring them to challenge him. He knows damn well this is a Iadian bar for Iadian clientele, playing Iadian music and serving Iadian drinks. You want to smash his arrogant Frosty face into the countertop.
You sit down and order a custia, downing it before you notice it's even there. You order another one. Even with the gentle warmth slowly seeping through your stomach and your limbs, you just can't seem to tune out that Frosty. You order another.
It's almost as though he can clearly see your need for a little peace and is trying his hardest to put the definitive crown of shit on your day. That's the sort of thing Frosties do to amuse themselves. You growl under your breath, staring at the countertop with its palette of spilled liquor. You imagine that Frosty's blood mixed in, a bright gleaming red outshining all the rest.
You order another. Your head droops down, finally acquiescing to the heaviness all around you. Custia is the greatest thing on Earth, the only gift God ever gave to Iad. Custia, sweet plum custia
" urvászot!" jars your ears. That clanging, metallic language spat out entirely in flats and animal grunts.
"Would you shut the fuck up already?" you blurt out, turning your face to the Frosty, who you see has in fact been staring at you all this time. He meets you immediately with a steady charcoal gaze. His wide, tight-lipped smile makes him look like an ugly vampire.
You finally turn back to the bartender, ordering two more custias at once. That's all you'll be able to afford with your hundred thousand, though what you'd really like now is to just drown yourself in a soft purple sea of the stuff. The shots go down like fire, incinerating the blood in your veins. You feel his gaze still there on you.
You smash your fist onto the bar, swinging your whole body around to face the bastard.
"What is your fucking problem?" you shout, standing up with your hands clenched into fists.
The Frosty stays calmly seated, making an almost invisible motion with his head towards the door. You grip at the bar to steady yourself.
Images of your day float through your mind the list without your name, your drunk mother, those pretty girls laughing, pool water, stinging chlorine, a lonely gypsy with his three-stringed violin, a useless old toaster, and everywhere, everywhere, people scowling, crying, wishing their lives would just end.
And now it is time for this day to end. How will you finish it off?
You sit down and order a custia, downing it before you notice it's even there. You order another one. Even with the gentle warmth slowly seeping through your stomach and your limbs, you just can't seem to tune out that Frosty. You order another.
It's almost as though he can clearly see your need for a little peace and is trying his hardest to put the definitive crown of shit on your day. That's the sort of thing Frosties do to amuse themselves. You growl under your breath, staring at the countertop with its palette of spilled liquor. You imagine that Frosty's blood mixed in, a bright gleaming red outshining all the rest.
You order another. Your head droops down, finally acquiescing to the heaviness all around you. Custia is the greatest thing on Earth, the only gift God ever gave to Iad. Custia, sweet plum custia
" urvászot!" jars your ears. That clanging, metallic language spat out entirely in flats and animal grunts.
"Would you shut the fuck up already?" you blurt out, turning your face to the Frosty, who you see has in fact been staring at you all this time. He meets you immediately with a steady charcoal gaze. His wide, tight-lipped smile makes him look like an ugly vampire.
You finally turn back to the bartender, ordering two more custias at once. That's all you'll be able to afford with your hundred thousand, though what you'd really like now is to just drown yourself in a soft purple sea of the stuff. The shots go down like fire, incinerating the blood in your veins. You feel his gaze still there on you.
You smash your fist onto the bar, swinging your whole body around to face the bastard.
"What is your fucking problem?" you shout, standing up with your hands clenched into fists.
The Frosty stays calmly seated, making an almost invisible motion with his head towards the door. You grip at the bar to steady yourself.
Images of your day float through your mind the list without your name, your drunk mother, those pretty girls laughing, pool water, stinging chlorine, a lonely gypsy with his three-stringed violin, a useless old toaster, and everywhere, everywhere, people scowling, crying, wishing their lives would just end.
And now it is time for this day to end. How will you finish it off?