[hr][color=cadetblue][h1]Errol MacReid[/h1][/color][hr]
[i][u]Starrybank[/u][/i]

McCready’s Irish Pub and Grill was not a place where one wanted to end up. It was just a place where, well, one ended up.  A few dozen souls tended to pass through the rickety doors of the establishment on a daily basis. Most of them were just bored bar-hoppers, wanting the distinction of having visited every bar in Starrybank. Even those who came twice were just in need of a quiet dive bar to drown their sorrows in, it wasn’t long before they realized there were better choices than McCready’s. There were, however, those select few who frequented the bar. Maybe they especially liked the taste of Artyom’s greasy french fries. Perhaps they were under the impression that McCready’s was intentionally going after that niche crowd who likes dingy, quiet pubs. Or, if they were like Errol MacReid, they kept coming because the bartender was the closest thing he had to a friend.

“You know,” Said Artyom, the aforementioned bartender. “You should really start buying some alcohol.” Artyom, gracefully as ever, poured Errol his usual glass of Dr. Pepper and slid it across the thrice re-finished bar. Errol took a long drink and spoke.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I have better margins on the liquor.”  Artyom said the same thing to him everyday. Though he hated the taste of the stuff, he might start buying some booze to shut the cheap bastard up. Errol took a look about.  The air was filled with cigar smoke, courtesy of an old man who, on the daily, drank brandy at a booth in the corner while puffing away on as many cigars as he could before he had to leave. The walls were panelled wood, thickly lacquered over. The lighting was kept dim to keep the electricity bills low, and as such significantly reduced the visibility of the place.

“You should really kick that Scottish Brogue of yours.” Said Artyom. “It sounds less “Sexy foreign” and more “Your drunk uncle doing an offensive Irish accent.”

“Artyom, my friend.” Errol said. “You have lived here for twenty-aught year and yet, you sound so archetypically Russian that I can’t help but imagine you in a tracksuit.” He took another drink before speaking again. “And you know what? My accent [i]is[/i] attractive. Granted, if that small forest you call a beard is any indication, you aren’t well versed in the ways of attractiveness.”

“Is that why there have been so many dates? Is that why you spend your nights in a dive bar that spends more money bribing health inspectors than it does on food?”

“Low blow, Artyom, low blow.” Errol sighed. “You know what, get me some liquor. Top shelf shit, something strong and dark. I need to look troubled, damnit.” Eroll watched as Artyom poured a glass of expensive looking whiskey. Eroll closed his eyes and reached out, brushing against Artyom’s mind.
[i]Make it free…[/i]

Artyom slid him the drink and paused for a second looking as though he had forgotten something. Then sudden realization dawned on him.

“You did that thing, didn’t you?” Artyom laughed bitterly. “You want some tips? On making friends and shit? Don’t mess with their minds, you crazy Scottish bastard!” Errol sighed and drained his glass with a grimace.

“Thanks for being my therapist, Artyom.”

“I’m not your therapist, I’m your bartender.”

“Is there a difference?” Artyom laughed at that, and Errol made an attempt to smile. It never quite reached his eyes.