"Hand me your keys," he said, "You've had plenty."
The bastard was being unreasonable. I was fully in control of my faculties and nothing, save my awkwardly twisting posture, hinted to the contrary. He possessed the heart of a coward and the face of a diseased bulldog. His lip curled upward to one side, and gravity weighed heavily on his brow, nearly severing one of his eyes from the rest of the world. And this poor disgusting fool had the testicular audacity to deny me. And just when the women of the wretched establishment were turning from horrid zoo animals into reasonably viable sexual candidates. Well, a good number of them at least. Some broken things can't be fixed. Not even with alcohol. But maybe if I were allowed more of the stuff, my fundamental right as an American, my mind could even persuade me to blindly toss charity to one of the women that God forgot about completing.
"Listen here, sir," I began, certainly not slurring my speech in a way that would indicate that I was not in control of myself, "As an American, I have rights...And those rights..."
I totally blanked. What was that elegant speech about fucking the trash can women and the sanctity of beer? It was gone. Maybe the answer was within a bottle. Aha! Brilliant.
"Bud Light," I said. Nailed it.
He eyed me sort of sideways, even more than his face naturally would be forced to do so. I could tell he was angry and building up to some Nazi bullshit about how he wasn't allowed to give me another drink in my "state", which he promptly did.
"I cannot give you another drink in your state," he said. I was fucking psychic. And he was beginning to make it on my list of people to theoretically kill violently if ever I built up the courage and raw savagery to do so.
"My 'state'," I said, "A man's geographical location should have no bearing on his ability to operate a beverage. Bud Light."
He rolled his crooked eye, the other eye oddly remaining in place. Admitting defeat, the man reached below the bar and produced a frosty drink. He knew I was adamant and the astute fucker probably decided that if I could concoct clever puns, I should be allowed another beer. Hell, if an individual is capable of producing anything of wit while under the influence, he is not properly under the influence. That's long been my philosophy.
Much to my utter disdain, the talent of the place remained mediocre, despite my continued attempt to destroy my last shred of self-respect for the night. None of these creatures became anything more than terrible hallucinations. Nothing moderately appealing.
I set the beer back on the counter with disgust.
"You broke it," I said, "It's not working." I callously tossed my payment in front of the man and began to exit. I then recalled the psilocybin pills my friend had given me earlier that day. Okay, not so much my friend as an acquaintance that gives me drugs in exchange for money. He'd told me that each pill was the equivalent of consuming two potent magic mushrooms.
With this realization, I grabbed the beer and used it to chase a purple pill that I casually tossed down my voice hole. Again, the bartender, with his dumb bulldog face, eyed me in that strange sort of manner.
"What was that?" he said.
"Medicine," I said, "I don't tell you how to live your life."
Let the fun begin.