Pavlov lights a cigarette, and inhales deeply. The bar is cold, dark, and empty. Everything a man needs.
“Then?”
“The bullets hit it right in the mouth. It landed on top of me and scurried off.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
Pavlov knocks back another pint of lager. The paycheck had come in. It was time to die a little death of debauchery. He slapped an ugly scrip note on the bar, and motioned to a one-eyed boy who had been standing in the corner.
“Here’s a tenner. Gimme two more lagers and a fiver for change.” He claps the boy in the side of the face with mock severity. Larssen laughs, and takes a pull off of a fresh cigarette, disposing of a stub in a small bag he wears around his neck. He raises the dregs of his beer.
“Here’s to the critter! May it rot in hell.” Pavlov grabs one of the glasses off of the newly returned boy’s tray, and downs it in four gulps, throwing the rest of the change to the kid.
Just another paycheck. Just another beer. Just another bender. Just another day on Sisyphus.