Lament of a redundant Christmas Elf.
By Fiacre Banks
December 12, 2016 4:11am CST
"You're going to offer to buy me a drink, aren't you?" That's what I said when you sat down beside me at the bar. "Well, would you like a drink or not?" you said. I said I'd like a whiskey and you ordered it but you didn't order anything for yourself, you wanted to keep a clear head and I knew why. Whiskey and a heart full of stories can be a lethal mix, especially in a bar near a train station and you knew what effect railway sounds can have on me on a wet night in a cold bar that's empty apart from a tired barman wiping stuff with a dirty cloth and a few hesitant travellers and everything feels like it's going on in the grubby pages of a meaningful and therefore depressing novel. Now you've turned me into a character in your dismal story, all for the price of a few whiskeys, and people are going to think I got my stories from the novel that's going to make you rich.
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