I am calmer than last time. Less drunk. My previous post was at the tail end of a three day bender, with all hope of professionalism gone. Reality is back, and it is the same shape as my hangover.
Do not get me wrong, I am thrilled that we are still here. But my back is a map of painful islands. And there is a lot of lifting to do.
When the Butter Mice left, the farmers and I dug holes. Lots of bodies need a place to go. We created the defences for a catastrophe, and yet the metal is twisted and bent double. I keep finding fingers and shredded feet skewered on bits of steel. All go back into the soil.
The windows in the bar are brittle ruffs of broken glass. The front door rocks on one hinge, bowed from the weight of dozens of blows. Cracked pictures lie like manholes on the floor Half my chairs are fire wood,or so slick with oily gristle I do not want people sitting on them ever again. I found a whole hand on the floor, and swept out half a butcher’s shop of offal and bones. There are rags up my nostrils, and a whole bottle’s worth of bleach ferments on the bar top.
I haven’t checked most of the planet yet. I imagine it is going to be churned up grass all the way round
When you consider there is nothing in the bar they would want, apart from a few mint leaves and some lemongrass, this whole situation is ridiculous. The parsnipheads who walked round the side had all the plants they wanted. But I suppose that is the story of the Haircut across the universe. I had forgotten the frustration. All the wasted effort, all the death and destruction, with no reward for anyone. Not even the dead.
But even in this madness, we have still had the odd guest pop in for a drink. They get what they are given, but I keep my hand washed, and do not charge. More than one person said they had seen worse.
We are still open, if you are nearby. Just step over the wrapped up bodies near the door.
