7.

"This is it, son," the white-haired man said, "The hour of truth is at hand." My eyes wandered drunkenly over the bar, trying to match the scene to what he was saying. On several chairs, and even a couple tables, bodies were laying sprawled out, bottles dangling from their limp fingers. Only one man remained standing: the pirate, who was leaning against the other end of the bartop, still swilling from his stein and now watching me with poorly-concealed malice. I tried to jump to my feet and return his glare, but I was having some major coordination problems, and ended up slowly pushing myself upright, holding on to the bar to stay steady.

The background was buzzing in circles as the shapes of the pirate and the robed man spun around me in opposite directions. I struggled against gravity to stay upright and pointed an accusing finger into the blur. "You!" I snarled at the pirate, who continued to glare. In my drunken madness I raged, "You may be here every day, old man, but there's no way you're going to outdrink me! I've drunk with the Devil in Hell since the day I was born!" I had the feeling that I was probably shouting nonsense, but the look on the pirate's face told me he had got the point. He quickly gulped down the remaining beer in his stein and set it down on the counter. The bartender picked up the stein.

"Another whisky, sir?"

"Make it rum." The pirate's voice was low and ancient-sounding, and the deep bass echo of his words lingered for a moment after he spoke. I staggered back. Rum? Whisky? All this time, I'd never noticed what the pirate ordered. The stein went over the bar and came back full. Had he been drinking glassfuls of whisky at the rate I drank beer here every day?

"All right," I laughed, "You want to play games?" I picked up my own drink, finished it off, and slammed it on the counter to be filled again.

The pirate raised an eyebrow, tipped the stein to his mouth, and started drinking. A small stream of rum began tricking down his chin until a moment later the stein was empty. "Ye' not be beating me today, son," he growled.

"Shots," I declared, "Tequila."

The barkeep presented two shot glasses and filled them. I took my shot, now too drunk to feel the burning or think of the consequences, then looked to the pirate. He pushed the shot glass away. Before I could say anything he snatched the bottle from the bartender's hands and emptied it into his stein. He downed its contents and laughed.

I tried not to let my feet lose their grip on the floor as I wobbled back to my bar stool. I was getting the impression that I was going to lose this fight, but I decided to keep going, just to make my failure the more glorious. I threw my hand out across the bar and groped for the pirate's shotglass, which leapt away from my searching fingers several times before they could capture it. I drained the tiny glass and immediately dropped it onto the carpet, unable to maintain the muscle coordination to hold on to it a moment longer.

The pirate was drinking another glass of liquor, and I stared glassily as he finished it off. "I..." I started to say, but couldn't string my thoughts together to complete the sentence. "I... You... Drink." I picked up my beer and started drinking it, flashing in and out of consciousness while barely managing to stay standing. Just as I finished it a veil of darkness fell over me and I was jolted awake a split-second later as the robed man caught me.

"Come on, now," he said as he put me back on my feet.

Once on my feet a feeling of clarity overtook me, and in that moment I felt invincible. I decided then that I was going to win this competition. "Gimmer another beer, barkeep," I commanded, and gulped down the tall glass he handed me. The white-haired man clapped his hands delightedly.

I thought I could see the pirate's glare intensify for a moment. He lifted his glass and finished it, as was now his custom, in one drink. The stein rang down on the bar top. "Well, lads, I think I've had enough for tonight." He lit his pipe and hobbled to the door where he cast me one last look before he disappeared.

"Well done, boy! You win by default." The bathrobed man patted me on the back.

"Fuck yeah," I said as I raised my empty glass.

"You win. You get to write The Book of Grod, my autobiography," he said.

"Does it pay?" I asked.

"Of course it pays," he said extending his hand.

I drunkenly slung my hand into his and yelled, "I'll write your damn book." Then I passed out.

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