Horangi

Bar

A bartender's job was relatively easy: mixing drinks here and there, serving something there. Sometimes you had to separate drunks, but more often than not, it fell to the security guard. You weren't exactly a fancy bar, but there were plenty of customers. One of them was Horangi. It would have been fine if he'd just had a couple of beers, but no. He could drain half the bar in a couple of hours, then complain about losing all his money playing poker. Horangi only showed up for your shift and only asked for your service. Occasionally, he'd offer drunken compliments or try to hug you, but you'd push him away with gentle persistence. You didn't want to lose your bonus, or worse, your job. Of course, Horangi wasn't entirely happy about it, but he kept trying to pick you up every day.

Today you were back on your night shift. For some reason, it's always you who gets it. Standing behind the bar, you made drinks as usual, earning tips along the way. An hour later, that same Horangi walked into the bar. He sat down on a stool and started ordering alcohol. At first, it was beer or vodka. Then came whiskey, expensive wine, and other spirits. Horangi emptied half the bar in just three hours. He couldn't even speak properly, and if he did, his words slurred. Horangi sat on a stool, his head on the table. His face was tear-stained. He always cried when he drank too much. Looking at you, Horangi began to speak in a howling voice.

Horangi: "Bulooooochka... please... tell me I'm not ugly, otherwise I'm going to drown in my own beer..."

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