The Sheep's Eye, Closing Time

Monty harboured a general dislike of the people staying past last call. 'The Sheep's Eye' wasn't a flattering venue in the first place. Not for anyone. Sticky floors, music that was somehow both too modern, and about five years out of date, the cheapest drinks that could be mixed without straight up lying about the ingredients. He tipped the wine bottle at the corner of the bar toward him slightly, pushing his thumb against the cork. He'd spent the better part of the last month taking small swigs from the bottle whenever he was about to do something he didn't feel like doing. They weren't large swigs, but it happened often. Working night shift at the Sheep's Eye had put him in contact with people he'd never thought he'd have to deal with. Disappointment had since given way to sobering acceptance. He took a swig from the bottle, set it down underneath the bar, with the other forgotten bottles of cheap as sin wine, and rounded the bar. He had to wake a couple people who had passed out on their tables, unnoticed by anyone but staff who would rather hold out hope that they managed to wake up on their own. The occasional one, Monty had to steady on their way out the door. Just past the doorstep, that was the extent to which he was responsible for them, and long nights of doing this with the same people over and over again had taught him that there was little point in going beyond this minimal requirement. Those were merely an eyesore, weighing heavily on his spirit. The bigger trouble were the ones who were still able to move approximately according to their own intentions.

Last call often kicked off overconfident defiance in those who felt it important they get more than one drink. Wrangling those was a more delicate matter, even though Monty would rather kick them out than the sleeping drunks. He poured the drinks, on autopilot, while watching the eight people milling around the shop floor, some with company, some without, waiting for more drinks. He counted each of them, adding another shot of what he regarded as the absolute worst whiskey they had in stock, which would hopefully smother the desire of another round. It worked most times, though Monty wasn't sure whether that was due to brief flash of mental clarity and the strong suggestion that they leave accompanying each served beverage, or whether the sickly sweet note of its additives and the burn of slightly too high proof alcohol chased them off.

Only one guest remained, sitting the far corner, just underneath the decorative plastic sheep's head. Monty sighed. Apparently this one needed special treatment. The guest was a man, older than Monty by perhaps ten years, hair in a mess that had once been a clean and precise haircut, before going unattended for several months. "Not ready to leave yet, eh?" he sat down opposite the guest. Everyone working at the Sheep's Eye had a different way of dealing with guests like these. Monty felt a subtle, quiet approach was likely for the best. The man didn't answer. He barely acknowledged Monty, even as he poured another shot of whiskey. "How about a game then? You win, you leave, I win, you can choose a bottle to take home?" The man replied with a noncommital grunt. Monty continued by pouring a shot for himself "The game is easy. You win by drinking five shots more than the other guy. You can't touch the bottle while drinking, and you pour for yourself." Monty placed the bottle between them. He didn't particularly like the whiskey himself, but it mixed poorly, and went to ones head quickly. Monty had a short walk home, survivable with a slight buzz, even if he wanted to go by the deli and get something to eat before going to bed. He didn't need to win the game. The way this game actually worked by making the guests, who had likely already gotten themselves rather drunk, to drink a lot of strong drinks very quickly, so they passed out and Monty could drag them outside. All Monty would have to do was slowly fall behind to four shots and then keep up.

The bottle was empty before the guest seemed remotely close to passing out. Monty could already feel the alcohol hitting. "I guess this means you win." He tried to sound chipper, even though he dreaded the headache in the morning "Choose a bottle." The guest stood, and walked to the bar to get a closer look, then reached over and underneath the bar, rummaging around. Monty could hear the sound of glass clinking together. He knew he regularly handled the bottles down there in the same manner, loudly, and without any particular regard for their safety. The glass bottles were likely sturdy enough to take it without cracking, but seeing someone else doing it did induce anxiety, dampened to a brief moment of uncertainty by the whiskey. The guest emerged with a familiar looking bottle. It was the wine that Monty had lent his sense of responsibility to. A swig of the bottle, a task he disliked. Seeing it in the hands of someone else felt like a personal attack. Monty stood, about to protest, when the guest popped the cork and began spilling its contents onto the floor. There wasn't supposed to be much left. Two glasses worth, perhaps. Monty backed away from the puddle of dark red liquid spreading around the guest, who was regarding Monty with unexpected lucidity in his eyes. The attachment to the bottle was forgotten when the puddle was large enough to reach behind the bar. It was an impossible amount of wine, even more than Monty would guess might fit into a barrel. "Stop, that's enough." he circled the puddle, impotently, unsure whether it was safe to step into it. The guest tipped the bottle further, wine escaping faster and faster, like a sink someone had opened all the way. "You can have the bottle, just stop flooding the place. Make it stop." The guest shook the bottle, and suddenly the flow slowed to a trickle, and not long after, he shook the last few drops out of the neck. The puddle began shrinking around the guest, as he set the mouth of the bottle to his own. Monty watched in a haze as the guest's teeth pushed against the glass, shattering it eventually, and the man began eating the glass, allthewhile the puddle receded around his feet. By the time, the bottle had disappeared into his mouth entirely, the puddle had shrunk to a few drops of red on the wood floor, nothing that wouldn't look out of place in the Sheep's Eye either way. The sound of the man chewing on the glass bottle was deafening. Monty didn't dare move. He felt that with that bottle had gone something more integral to his being. A sense of accountability that he had pushed onto a ritual had returned to him, making any decision he faced infinitely more difficult. The guest finished chewing, then stumbled out of the Sheep's Eye.

Monty had closed up. Despite everything. He could see an identical bottle of cheap wine, unopened underneath the bar, almost looking back at him. It's call was so much stronger than the one of the first bottle had been. Still, he wasn't sure the guest hadn't been here for that bottle in the first place. Not the bottle, or the contents it had been sold with, but perhaps the part of Monty that he had tried to replace it with. He never wanted to see that man again. He locked the door and headed home.