It's a Friday night and I don't have a whole lot to do, so I was just piddling around a bit, and wound up writing the beginnings to a story.
For some reason or another, strange things usually start in bars. Any number of strange occurrences have their foggy origins within the depths of a pub: musical careers, shady business deals, political insurrections, alien sightings and even the odd marriage. There are innumerable explanations for why such bizarre phenomena seem to gravitate towards such settings. A popular explanation, dubbed the Theory of Alcoholic Reality Dilation, surmises that the extrasensory powers of inebriated persons distorts the fabric of reality; allowing strange events to occur with greater frequency. Another theory, known as the Alcoholic-Demonic Theory, suggests that yeast organisms are really beings from an extra-dimensional abyss that wield their impish powers through the mind and body of a drinker. A third theory, known as the Drunk People Get Bored theory, infers that inebriated individuals quickly bore of the mundane life, and subsequently set out to cause all sorts of mischief by organizing barfights, rebellions, and college reunions. (This theory was, however, discarded in favor of the more astute, scientific-sounding theories.)
Whatever the reason, philosophers and tavern-goers all agree that pubs and bars tend to birth dangerous, unique, and in general, unavoidably exciting events. This story starts in a bar. Not a swanky, upper-class bar where the drinks cost more than an average person's paycheck, but a dingy, poorly-lit, and altogether stereotypical bar. The drinks don't cost an arm and a leg, but an individual who is less than cautious or less than gigantic might lose one or the other on the way out anyways. This is a mixed bar, where humans mingle with dwarves, elves, gnomes, hobbits, and all manner of other races. This is a mixed bar, where the drinks taste like over-peppered mugs of molten glass. This is a mixed bar, where it is considered prudent to tip the bouncers upon entrance, where the bartender has one eye, where the dust from forty-two countries collects on the ground, and where the thick air reeks of plot exposition.
* * *
Timothy Bluebuttons the hobbit squelched down the slightly muddy street. He adjusted his slightly wet hood and shifted his slightly heavy pack to his right shoulder. A door opened about twenty hobbit-paces ahead, and a man who appeared to be slightly drunk stumbled out the glowing doorway and, more or less, fell flat on his face. After pausing for a moment to examine the curious spectacle, Timothy was forced to continue walking as to keep from sinking to his calves in the slime.
The man lifted his face off of the road, and considered Timothy with a stare that could only be described as muddy. A passing stray dog trod on the man's back. He emitted a noise that sounded like someone trying to curse loudly with their mouth full of something unpleasant. The dog ignored him completely, extracted another gurgle by stepping on him with a hind leg, and continued on its carefree, canine way.
Yes, I am a huge Terry Pratchett fan.
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Topic: Another Story That Starts in a Pub (Read 559 times)