ArchivedLogs:Cheap Beer

Cheap Beer
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Dan	2013-02-27 Murphy meets Dan in a bar; orders cheap beer. RANTS ABOUT MILITARY STUFF.
Location Some Bar
Wednesday nights are ladies' night at Molly's, and women drink half-price, according to the hand-lettered sign in the window. Sadly, it does not seem to be much of an enticement, as the interior of the pub is as empty as is ever is. The same four roughneck fellows who always seem to litter these scenes are gathered around a table, dominoes scattered on the greasy formica top as they argue good-naturedly about their day. Behind the bar, Dan sits in his usual (when he's behind the bar, that is) spot, perched on a bar stool, one knee cocked up as he rests an arm across it, a paperback book -- /The Borrowers/, from the title -- clutched in its hand. His other hand hangs low beside him, a burned-out cigar dangling from loose fingertips. Somewhere, a tinny sound system is working its way through Lou Reed Live. Currently playing: 'I'm Waiting For the Man'. Murphy looks like the sort of man who knows precisely what he wants: To get good and wrecked. His previous clean-cut face is startling to develop a bit of a stubble; his fine, long wool black coat is starting to look haggard -- and he's getting those dark circles under his eyes. He's half-way between shoving a cigarette in his face and pulling out his lighter -- a brass thing with the Marine Corps logo on it -- as he's sitting at the bar. Flicking it with a steady clink. Is smoking even allowed in bars anymore? He doesn't remember. Doesn't look like he cares, either. "Cheapest beer you got," he grunts, not bothering to look up at whoever's on duty. Saw him coming in. Knows everything he needs to know. The door opening at Molly's gets, literally, everyone's attention. The dominoes game pauses as all four men crane their heads to watch the newcomer's approach to the bar. One of them gives Dan a curious look before the foursome return to their game. He ordered cheap beer; he is One of Them and no longer of any interest. Dan also looks up at the door's opening, already pushing himself off the stool into a standing position before the man ever lands at the bar. The lighter gets an upward tick of his eyebrows, and he nods at the request, digging in a cooler. The beer he sets in front of Murphy, however, is not a cheap beer. It is a Heineken, cold and frosty, with an icy pilsner glass next to it. Dan lifts his eyebrows, returning to his stool. "First one's on the house." Murphy lifts an eyebrow at the beer in front of him. The lighter -- it tumbles between his fingers, clinking open and closed -- produces one final *CLINK* as he snaps it lit -- the pale, orange tongue of flame licking at the cigarette's tip. It casts that haggard looking face in a bronze glow -- granting the man a demonic mien. Wordlessly, Murphy lowers the lighter -- it disappears in his coat, and is replaced with his key chain. There is a light *click*, followed by a *fsst*; the bottle cap tumbles to the bar. He then plucks the bottle up -- along with the glass -- and walks, calmly, toward the game of dominos. The opened bottle of beer -- along with the glass -- is sat in front of the closest man in reach. "On me," he grunts, and then he walks straight back to the bar -- sitting back down in front of Dan. Exact same spot. He takes a long, smooth draw from his cigarette -- holds it -- then lets it loose in a gust of smoke: "Cheapest beer you got." Dan watches the display with an neutral expression, his eyes tracking the rumpled-looking man as he generously donates his beer to (unbeknownst to him) the biggest mooch in the bar. He continues to track the man back to the bar, and when he repeats his order, he lifts a shoulder, and pulls off a draft. The beer he sets down is /not/ Heineken. It is a red, thick-looking beer that smells as if horse piss were the primary ingredient. This gets placed in front of the man with a big show of setting down the napkin first, then Dan is sliding an ashtray over. "First one's on the house," he repeats firmly, and returns to his stool, jerking his thumb at a faded sign on the mirror behind the bar that reads WE SUPPORT THE TROOPS. Murphy seems pleased with the beer -- well, he doesn't scowl at it, anyway. The sign's another matter; when Dan jerks his thumb at it, Murphy's nose wrinkles -- like he caught whiff of a smell that doesn't quite please him. But he doesn't say anything about it. He just... grunts. And lifts the beer. And proceeds to drink, grimacing all the while. It's clear that he doesn't /like/ it, but he's apparently hell-bent on drinking it. "Why you readin' a kid's book." Is that supposed to be a question? It doesn't sound like there's a question mark in there. But it's certainly got the grammatical /structure/ of a question. When Murphy says it, he's not looking at Dan; he's staring ahead, at the bar, like he's trying to figure something out. He has the look of a man intent on getting /hammered/. Dan doesn't look up from his book as he answers. "Got tired of doing the Cosmo quiz." The cigar butt is lifted to get clamped between his teeth, and he fishes out a box of matches. "Why're you drinkin' shit beer an' giving good beer away?" Fishing out a match, he strikes it against his thumbnail and brings the fire to the stub, puffing lightly to get it lit. "You want liver damage that bad, I could just shoot you." "I know what good beer tastes like. Bad beer /surprises/ me." He takes another gulp, grimacing again. The glass is already just about empty; Murphy looks like he's experiencing some sort of headache. "Trying to forget some shit. Not working. I'll take another draft," he says, and then he /does/ finish it. Meanwhile, his other hand reaches into his pocket -- pulling out a cellphone. It's a sad, clunky thing. It looks like it was built for *old* people. "That'll sure surprise you," Dan says around the cigar, pushing off his stool and stepping forward. "Tomorrow morning, you're gonna get good and surprised." He shudders, and lifts a shoulder. "I also got a shovel in the back I could brain you with," he says as he pulls another draft. "I aim to give the customers what they want." Bringing the beer to the bar, he quirks a grin at the cell phone. "Will that even work without the suitcase battery pack?" He fiddles with the device; it makes a series of angry beeps. The screen -- rather small -- flashes. He pulls his cigarette, taps it in the ash tray -- deposits it -- then reaches for the beer. Another gulp, another grimace. "Nothing surprises me anymore," he says. "Nothing 'cept shitty beer." The phone finally obeys his commands; he punches in a number from memory. Then lifts it to his ear. Dan catches one end of the conversation: "It's Murphy." Pause. "Collecting my favor." Pause. "UAVs." Pause. "Pictures of 'em." Pause. "All of 'em." Pause. "Yep." A longer pause, then: "Manhattan." And then, after a considerable pause: "Alright. Just send me that one. No, not over the fucking phone. Fax it to -- no, I *don't* have a fucking email address, and I don't want to. Just fucking *fax* it. Alright." He closes the phone with a snap. And then -- the second beer disappears in two more gulps. "Fucking eggheads." "It's your colon," Dan mutters, clamping his mouth around the cigar and puffing at it while he takes up the dirty glass and washes it. The conversation is listened to with a disinterested expression that belies the way his ears seem perked. Rinsing the glass, he fetches a bar towel and starts drying it just as Murphy shuts the phone. The comment gets a snort. "Most intelligence people are dumb as shit," he says. "At least, in my experience." The dried glass gets set back on the shelf, and he returns to his stool. "You a spook?" The phone slips back into his pocket. "No. Worked with a few, though. Saw some weird shit." The empty glass is shoved toward Dan, suggestively. Meanwhile, the cigarette has found its way back into his mouth. "You don't get into intelligence without being one canny mother-fucker. Thing is, stress eventually just tears you the fuck down. Looking over your shoulder 24/7. You start seeing shit /everywhere/. Makes you into a cagey, sinister bastard." "Tell me about it," Dan says of weird shit, his expression darkening as he rises to grab another beer. "Saw my own fair share of it. Never worked with any of those guys, though." He smirks at the tap, watching the beer slide along the side of the glass. "Found it all by myself." He sets the beer down, and reaches up to pluck the cigar from his mouth. "That might be true of the guys out in the field," he says. "But I never met any of those guys. I just dealt with the guys who rode the desks back home, who thought they knew what was going on from a bunch of sattelite images and the word of a couple of insurgents who'd say anything for fifty dollars." He lifts a shoulder. "Dealing with /those/ guys is what makes you into a cagey, sinister bastard." "Never dealt with the desk-jockeys. Just the field operatives." The glass tilts back. Grimace. Third of it gone. "Never met one I liked. Never met one I didn't respect, either." Another tilt back, another grimace, another third. "Least, not one who didn't know what the fuck they were doing. Few of 'em went all Article 7 on us, but that's to be expected when you're dealing with that sort of shit." One more tilt back -- one more grimace -- and now it's empty. Suddenly, he's getting up, fishing into his coat -- producing a twenty. "Gotta see a man about a murder-drone," he says. "Maybe I'll swing by and try your piss-beer again." Dan lifts a shoulder. "Like I said, I never worked with the field ops, but if I saw even a third of what is out there, I can imagine there's more than a few that haven't made it out intact." He frowns as the man gets up, and his eyebrows furrow. "Murder-drone?" he asks with a grimace. "Is that a euphemism, or is that what you need the UAV info on?" He holds up a hand. "Never mind. I don't want to know." He nods, and leans forward to take the twenty, fluttering it at the man. "Come back anytime. I'm usually here on Wednesday nights. Name's Dan." "Murphy." He doesn't want to know; so Murphy doesn't tell him. He just moves on out--hands deep in his pocket, followed by a trail of cigarette smoke.