text: “Whiskey.” A man slumped down on a creaky barstool. “ On the rocks?” The man sat in silence, staring at his reflection in the mirror behind the rows of liquor. “Why the long face mate?” The bartender slid the glass across the counter. “Long story.” “ I got all the bloody time in the world.” The bartender said, surveying the empty pub. The man looked up from his whiskey to eye the greying, portly barkeep in front of him. “Don’t worry mate, you can trust me.” The bartender polished a stein with a dirty rag.”I’ve heard it all in my day; all walks of life have made their way through this ol’ beaut.” He slapped his sausage fingers down on the counter. The man pounded the warm whiskey and slid the glass back across the counter. “ Its just... it’s just I’ve been feeling overworked, and underappreciated.” “Aye, all too common in this crazy world we’re living in today” The bartender filled another glass of whiskey and slid it to the man. “Why just the other week I was talking to a Japanese bloke that was crisscrossing all over the world. Flying business class don’t offer much comfort when you ain’t seen your wife's face in three months.” &#x200B; The man swirled the whiskey around in the glass. “Everyone gets so wrapped up in the daily minutia of it all, they forget about what really matters in life. They inevitably get cross with me when I have to deliver the bad news.” The bartender stroked the late shift stubble on his face and studied the man with his good eye. He was a very plain man; not handsome, but not ugly, not young, but not old. He wore a dark business suit, neither fine nor tattered. “ I see then, you're in the insurance game. John Doe wrecks his fancy new sports car doing a hundred on some scarcely lit backroad, and cusses you out when you say you ain’t forking over a penny to the git.” The man chuckled as he suckled the last drops of whiskey from his glass. “ A fair guess, but no.” The bartender grumbled and moved a hand rolled cigarette from behind his ear to his pudgy lips. “ I usually pride myself on being able to read people real well.” &#x200B; “Don’t beat yourself up, I’m a tough one to read.” “ I’ll tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. Next round is on the house if you give me a hint.” He reached over the bar and refilled the man's glass. “Alright, I’ll bite. Let’s say I’m in the business of collections.” The bartender struck a match and lit his cigarette. “ Well you didn’t have to make it so easy on me mate. It's clear you're a bookie, no matter how many hours you toil away down at the track, nobody appreciates the man that takes away their hard earned cash.” The man took another gulp of warm whiskey. “ Wow, you are good at this game.” The bartender smiled a gap toothed grin. “Well there ain’t nuthin to it really, you just gotta-” “But you’re wrong.” “You cheeky sod.” “ A nice try my friend but you have to dig deeper. Ask yourself, what could make a man so miserable?” “Alright. Alright.” The bartender again reached over the bar, filling the man's glass as he was bringing the last sip up to his mouth. “ One last hint, I’m gonna get it this time.” “ They say only two things are inevitable in life.” The bartender palmed his forehead. “ You’re a tax man, of course I should have seen it from a mile away, the suit, the cold look in your eyes, drinking like a fish.” He swipes his dirty rag across the bar. “There are few people in this world as hated as tax men, they’re just like bookies but you’re guaranteed to lose.” The man continued to sip his whiskey in silence. “I suppose I owe you mate, all those taxes drive people straight into me pub.” The bartender’s gut jiggled like a bowl of jelly as he laughed. “I’m sorry to say, but I’m afraid you still haven’t gotten it.” The bartender slammed another glass down on the bar and poured himself a whiskey. “I tell you what mate, I’m losing my touch, the minds the first thing to slip away as you roll into your golden years.” The man held up his glass. “Cheers.” “Cheers.” The glasses clinked, and the men pounded their whiskey, groaning as they slammed the glasses back down to the bar. &#x200B; The bartender stood stoically in silence for a moment. “So what exactly is it you’re trying to tell me mate? You’re in the business of death?” He furrowed his brow. “For the life of me I can’t figure out what that means. Are you a Soldier? An Assassin? Oh, wait, a Mortician perhaps?” The man Chuckled. “You are really quite curious aren’t you?” “When you get to be as old as I am, you start to feel like you’ve seen all this world has to offer. When the unknown drops itself into your lap, you feel like a kid again.” The man adjusted his neck tie. “I’m afraid I haven’t been perfectly honest with you, I’m actually here tonight on official business.” The bartender looked sideways at the man. “ Alright mate, spit it out, there's no more dancing around it.” “Well I guess people call it all sorts of things... but the *grim reaper* is the one I hear most often.” “Come Again?” The man sighed. “ You know, the *grim reaper*? The corporeal personification of death, the shepherd of damned souls.” “Well Shit.” The bartender refilled each of the glasses with the stagnant whiskey. “If I’m going I ain’t going sober.” The man nodded and raised his glass. “To life.” The bartender nodded back and raised his glass. “To death.” The glasses clinked, and the men pounded their whiskey, groaning as they slammed the glasses back down to the bar. The bartender shut his eyes tight and savored the bitter burn of the whiskey one last time. Then the two men walked out of the bar and into the inky night.