An End to the Irish (solo)

OOC info: This thread has been sitting around for quite a while so the time continuety is broken here.

What had begun as a part time employment at an Irish pub had soon become something more. After the week of helping out had expired, he found himself to be drawn toward the place. A fact the somewhat amused him. Seeing people destroy their brain cells voluntarily made something akin to schadenfreude stand on the edge of his sight. Where his customers were enjoying their after work hours, drawn to the bar, behind which an old and heavyset man was now serving, as it was not yet the time to warrant another barkeeper attending them. He missed the stories that were told to him in a musical accent, stories that mixed truth with fiction, stories that were wrong and right in their half drunk, clouded mind. For making these people, at least the regulars that was, wholesomely drunk was something that he had seen happen only once.

There had been stories that were blatantly false or simply illegible if the patron had been served enough ethanolic tinctures for the evening, but ethylism had not claimed the last bit of sense from their brains, so those usually left in a quiet and orderly fashion. But all of them had had something in common. They had been important to the people telling them. They had been on their minds. They were significant enough to remember them, lie about them, reexamine them or simply revisit them in memories with loosened tongues or loosened minds. The stories had been life. Change. Exitement. And a puzzle. How could some people keep on living such miserable lives without complaining? How could they be so powerless and still not do the usual, the human thing to do, to feel enraged or saddened? How could others be so saddened by so small events, so touched by little things that he dismissed in an instant? Martin had found something there. Something he had been looking for when he came here. He had found change. Pictures, thousand different pictures of life, sitting in a single place. It was something that kept his mind from wandering to events he did not want to remember, something that busied his hands while he looked around in tehir silent, frozen faces, as he passed the time, as time passed him by, on its way down the drain that people here called past.

Hear the stories and listen to life. There was something in the Air that told him, this would not be the last time, that he would do this. As a job. Ethanol had been invented 4000 years ago. It would continue to exist during his existence also.

To your health.
The fires offine spirits burned in his moth. Throat. Stomach. A last gift from his employer. A parting gift. A bottled version of their homeland. Need Help To Remember. Glenfiddich.

Martin left the pub for one last time. The door fell shut behind him. Shadows had risen on the streets. They were alive with the driving of cars, fingering on him, over him, as they passed. Everything was as usual. Another night. But where would he find his new stories? At that Mansion?

It was worth a try.