'Er. Old Overcoat?'
YES. AND THEN THE SECOND ROW.
'Which one did you have in mind?'
ALL OF THEM.
The stranger remained bolt upright, the glasses with their burdens of syrup and assorted vegetation disappearing into the hood on a production line basis.
This is it, the landlord thought, this is style, this is where I buy a red jacket and maybe put some monkey nuts and a few gherkins on the counter, get a few mirrors around the place, replace the sawdust. He picked up a beer-soaked cloth and gave the woodwork a few enthusiastic wipes, speading the drips from the cordial glasses into a rainbow smear that took the varnish off. The last of the usual customers put on his hat and staggered out, muttering to himself.
I DON'T SEE THE POINT, the stranger said.
'Sorry?'
WHAT is SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN?
'How many drinks have you had?'
FORTY-SEVEN.
'Just about anything, then,' said the barman and, because he knew his job and knew what was expected of him when people drank alone in the small hours, he started to polish a glass with the slops cloth and said, 'Your lady thrown you out, has she?'
PARDON?
'Drowning your sorrows, are you?'
I HAVE NO SORROWS.
'No, of course not. Forget I mentioned it.' He gave the glass a few more wipes. 'Just thought it helps to have someone to talk to,' he said.
The stranger was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said: You WANT TO TALK TO ME?
'Yes. Sure. I'm a good listener.'
NO-ONE EVER WANTED TO TALK TO ME BEFORE.
'That's a shame.'
THEY NEVER INVITE ME TO PARTIES, YOU KNOW.
'Tch.'
THEY ALL HATE ME. EVERYONE HATES ME. I DONT HAVE A SINGLE FRIEND.
'Everyone ought to have a friend,' said the barman sagely.
I THINK —
'Yes?'
I THINK . . . I THINK I COULD BE FRIENDS WITH THE GREEN BOTTLE.
The landlord slid the octagon-bottle along the counter. Death took it and tilted it over the glass. The liquid tinkled on the rim.
YOU DRUNK I'M THINK, DON'T YOU?
'I serve anyone who can stand upright best out of three,' said the landlord.