Hell is an Irish Bar

Shamus enters the pub. A beard of three day's growth blackens his face, but goes unnoticed in the dim light. Sweat beads his brow from the unusually hot day outside. He pulls a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face. His clothes are clean but rumpled. His back pocket has reshaped itself around his wallet.

Shamus glances over at the air vent before heading to bar. The tassels someone strung there hang limp in the absence of a breeze. There'll be no respite from the heat in here. The bar is dark and beaten, but it shines with a dull finish. The bartender is busily wiping the counter down.

The only stool left open has a tilt, so Shamus stands beside it. He leans on the bar. When the bartender fails to notice him, Shamus waves a hand.

The bartender glances in his direction, then puts his rag under the counter, and comes over.

Shamus orders a beer.

The bartender points his thumb over his shoulder at the tap. There is a sign taped to it reading 'Out of Order'.

Shamus says that bottled is fine.

The bartender says that the delivery is late, there isn't any.

Shamus asks for whiskey.

They're all out.

Vodka.

Out.

Vermouth.

Out.

Gin.

Out.

Port.

Never had any.

Wine or champagne.

The bartender spits on the floor.

In exasperation Shamus asks what the bartender does have.

Silently the bartender pulls a tall glass and a pitcher from beneath the counter. He places the glass before Shamus, and then pours a dark purplish-black liquid. No moisture beads on the glass; it's warm.

What's this, Shamus asks knowing he'll drink it regardless.

Prune juice.

The bartender leaves Shamus to nurse his drink.

Shamus sips the vile liquid. He'd come back tomorrow. He always did. Maybe tomorrow there'd be something stronger.