3 Sheets (Blogophilia 7.7)

"Paranoia is just another word for ignorance."

Scotch spun in the glass as these words sprung from the page. Thompson was right, of course. He feared for of a lack of knowledge. The world is crazy. Can't explain why he spent three days in the nuthouse any other way.

Shrugging his thin shoulders, he took an unfiltered cigarette out of his battered leather jacket.and placed it in his mouth. Couldn't smoke in the bar, so he just chewed the end like a cigar. The bitter juice jolted his nervous system and muted the drag from the shots. 

They knew him well here at 3 Sheets. He had been coming here since before he could legally drink, because they never carded. Comfortably dark room and always the same seat overlooking the bridal shop. The Crack Kroger across the parking lot with it's comforting blue neon glow. Always the same drink, Cutty Sark on the rocks.A very ritualistic existence.

Counselors, Lawyers, Cops...all those pigs were watching, asking questions. Where was he going? Why did he have that notebook? What's the meaning of the tattoo on his arm. Hassling from the time he got up until he went to bed, looking to destroy his own little corner of life. And the rules...stupid ones like not being able to smoke in a bar. Whiskey and cigarettes went together. Everyone knows that. 

"In a nation ruled by swine, all pigs are upwardly mobile."

Thompson is right again. They were all pigs ready for slaughter. To make ham, he needed to study methods.  Learn how the machinery interacted and devise gambits against the master plan. He shifted in high stool and tossed amber liquid down his throat. Sweat formed at his temples as the alcohol and anger rose. Quit drinking and take their chemicals. Yeah, like that wasn't a trap to silence him.

Steely Dan began to drift from the sound system. Deacon Blues could be his theme song. "..So useless to ask me why..." Yeah, the dream was bought and paid for. But there was only one game in town. And he'd been drinking scotch whiskey for years.

Catching the bartender's eye, he signaled for a refill. His voice was distant as it reached his ears.  "You drivin' tonight, Jeremy? You look just a bit tipsy."

"Nah. I'll call a cab when I'm ready". He slurred. "I'll pick up the car tomorrow. Just bring me another Cutty, Thanks."

With a sigh, the bartender pulled the bottle up and filled the glass. 

"O.K., But let's make this one the last. Last call is ten minutes."  With that, the bartender turned and went back to taking inventory. The bar television was showing a recap of a random car bombing somewhere. Images of smoke burned and indelible image in his mind.

A light was beginning to form in the back of his mind. Jeremy knew how he could do it. Pulling out his cell, he dialed the taxi. After clicking off, he rose from the wooden chair. Steadying himself against the snack machine, he tossed a C noted on the bar and stumbled into the cool night air.