Drink Prophet / Sic transit gloria mundi ??

My wallet’s as empty as a fat girl’s vagina on a Monday night mumbled the ceremonial drunk to no one in particular, and no one would listen, and even the swirling low-pressure areas in the dank wood of the bar ignored him. He clutched his empty glass like a recent amputee would clutch the stump of his former arm, longing for something seemingly close but lost forever. The drunk looked intensely at his open hand as if the filthy wrinkles constituted a script, a rune-like alphabet that he should be able to decipher. Why would the secrets not reveal themselves? Maybe another drink would offer some much-needed clarity, the enlightenment he was seeking always and everywhere. There was no telling when the truth would hit you. But he had no money left. Turned to stone he sat with his whirlpool thoughts.

No one ever listens. Doesn’t matter, nothing new, all of old, nothing ever really matters. Fail once, fail again. Fail worse. Nothing to be done.

He downed a shot of poor scotch, offered by the bartender who must’ve recognised his wisdom. Darkness slowly enveloped them, rainclouds outside painted an unnatural dusk.

The drunk suddenly couldn’t let mankind fail anymore, he was overcome with rage. Volcano anger, always mistreated by a world that refused to listen, didn’t even acknowledge him. Red flashes of violence, gorilla mind in a useless body. Stumbling from his stool—too high!—like Moses stumbled from the mountain, he would give these people some Commandments, finally some principles to live by, to love with, to die for. The words would not come, actions would have to speak for him.

He hurled his glass at a bespectacled young man who sat reading a book too quietly and too isolated from the hurly-burly of the real. Must be a poet, look at his hands. The lazy artist went down, lightning bolt of blood on his face.

I bring you justice, you will listen!

Then the prophecy ended, and everything went dark.


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