The door slammed shut with a loud bang. The room was near empty, only a lone figure, draped in a piecemeal leather trenchcoat decorated the bar. The room, lit with the garish neon lights advertising sexual drugs, mood altering beverages, and reminding people to floss, was simultaneously depressing and welcoming. The handbills on the wall were faded and curling, and nearing an inch deep. The floor was scuffed and stained to the point where no one could tell what it was actually made of. Even the figure at the bar seemed run down and unkempt, a lonely figure too broke to afford the drugs that whispered promises of harems full of satisfied women. The only thing in the entire room that looked cared for was the bar, a shiny hunk of sculpted metal, smooth, polished, sleek, and cold and forbearing.

I walked up to the bar, wondering where the bartender could be. I intended on sitting on one of the stools until a closer look revealed I would probably wind up sprawled out on the floor indebted to the owner for a new stool; I stood instead. I put my elbows up on the bar, and leaned over, surprised to find a midget glaring back up at me.

“Get your grubby mitts off my bar, or so help me I'll have your kneecaps for peanut dishes,” barked the midget.

I quickly removed my arms and stood up some. I did not expect to find such a small man anywhere since the obligatory gene therapy went into place twenty years ago. This bar was ordinary, nothing remarkable about it, but the bartender proved to be quite a curious and odd piece of work.

“What do you want?” he asked, his tone softer but indicating he wanted no nonsense.

“I want the darkest stout you have on tap, but I'll settle for whatever you've got.”

The bartender grunted, grabbed the nearest mug and filled it with a liquid so dark it was nearly black. He pulled out a coaster, set it on the bar he so obviously cosseted, then gently placed the mug on the coaster. He scowled at me as if to dare me to spill or slam my mug down. On any other night I would be intrigued; any other night and I would have started a conversation with the quaint barkeep. Tonight, however, I wanted to retreat, to forget the events that transpired mere hours ago, and I didn't feel all that friendly. Too bad I picked the wrong bar, I was not going to be left alone.

The midget growled and glared at me. “Drink it or not, I don't care. I don't care what you Modders do, as long as you pay for your booze. You can drink it right? You aren't one of those crazy bastards who dispensed of that natural function are you?”

In response I thrust out my hand, launched the mug into the air, and quaffed half of it before gently setting it down. I glowered at the midget; most people would register that look as one that clearly said, “Go away” but this midget was either retarded in more than his growth or figured any implied threat was a bluff.

“You do that again and I'll charge you a damage fee, and don't give me any guff about not hurting anything. You're looking to get bent, and with your aggressive mood you'll end up busting up something of mine. So you can drink, and probably get drunk. Buddy, getting drunk never solved nutthin'. What you need is a sympathetic ear.”

I glared at him, again hoping he'd catch on. He caught something, but it wasn't anything I was tossing around.

“Nah. Not me. I got no sympathy for you Modders, but Earnie over there, he's another story. Buy him enough milk and the man will listen to whatever you have to say, and usually offer some pretty good advice. Now I know what you're thinking, but what good is advice from a drunk man; besides Earnie has this weird fixation on milk, just like he does on that psychoanalytics of his.”

I ignored Earnie; as far as I was concerned the only things in that room that actually existed were me, the bar, and the mug full of my bitter friend. Reluctanly I had to acknowlege the midget was occationaly popping in and out of my little reality. I let a low and almost imperceptible grunt escape my lips as I reached for my mug again. This time I did not stop flooding my throat until the glass was empty. “Another,” was all I said, as I set the mug down and pushed it toward the midget. Neither the midget nor Earnie would ever understand.

We got the call this afternoon. A group of kids on some scavenger hunt were being harassed by some rent-a-cops; our contract was simple, extract them from the situation and escort them to the nearest coffee shop. The kids had already been handed over to the police, and were in a van headed to a local lockup. My squad launched an assault on the van. As if attacking an armored transport was not hard enough the Insurers showed up. I barely got the kids out while the Insurers dragged some fat tub of lard down some alley. I lost my entire squad. All fourteen of them, gone. Between the mercs attached to the transport and the Insurers the carnage was high. It was a case of bad timing, but tell that to the liquid remains of my squad.

The midget slid another mug of the dark beer toward me. I finished it in one draught. I signaled for another. Two down, twelve more to go.