It wasn't their usual bar. High class. Businessfolk with their ties loosened or blouses unbuttoned at the top. The bartenders wore vests like the kind you'd see on a trained monkey. Had they worn fezzes, the analogy would have been complete. The customers drank brightly colored cocktails of the sort no middle-class man would even consider ordering. Alcohol should not be blue, pink or green.

Busker and Death were horribly out of place with their domestic brews. Bud Light and Busch, respectively. Every other beer in the bar was a Heineken.

Death pointed to a flat screen TV behind the bar. “The game's started.”

Cubs at the Marlins.

Busker shrugged after a quick glance at the screen.

“Come on, how can you not root for the Cubs?”

“I don't like the underdogs. Everybody always roots for the underdogs. It's passé. Call me a bandwagoner if you want, but it seems like you're rooting against the favorite more than for the little guys. I can't imagine someone appreciating that kind of empty support.”

He downed his beer without taking a breath, savoring the watered-down euphoria of Bud Light like it was ambrosia, or the long neck was the Holy Grail. The empty brown bottle clinked delightfully as he set it down. He began the slow process of peeling off the label.

“Have you ever read the fine print on a bottle of beer?” asked Death.

Busker already knew what the bottle said.

Please drink responsibly.

-----

Next: Chapter 2 - Rommel