I run out of alcohol and go to the bar. It’s not my usual bar but my girlfriend’s kid wanders the house with a microphone and headphones, trying repeatedly to get us to sit in chairs and talk while he occasionally praises promotional products spread out on the coffee table in front of him and I need to leave the house. He doesn’t actually have a podcast. I told my girlfriend I’d have to be nearly blacked out to indulge him in his delusions. She told me I’m the worst stepdad in the world and I told her I’m the only thing she has besides … and I nod to her son who’s sitting in his chair eating nicotine pouches like candy.
The bar’s so small it only consists of the bar and some stools. I order a whiskey and a beer and try not to look at the television. They have it tuned to the stoning channel. Stoning was only made legal last week and I wonder how they already have a channel for it, but I guess AI can do pretty much anything as long as it closely resembles things that already exist. The bartender and the one other patron are pretty enthralled by it—groaning, laughing, and cheering with abandon.
“You get anybody yet?” the patron asks the bartender. I notice the patron has a gun on his hip.
“Nah,” the bartender says. “I don’t think I could. Pretty damn fun to watch though.”
“I ain’t got none neither,” the patron says. He digs into the deep pockets of his tactical pants with his short, fat arms. He pulls out a rock slightly larger than a softball and clunks it down on the bar next to his razor shades. “But I’m just waitin’ for the chance.” He mimes throwing the rock and the imagined person in front of him gives his eyes a glow. “It’s gotta feel pretty good. Real satisfying. Course, I wanna make sure I ain’t gonna go to jail.”
I pound the whisky and think this guy probably belongs in a mental institution. I drink my beer quickly, happy I got the twelve-percent pint. When I’m finished, I decide to head back home, even though I’m nowhere near blacking out. The bartender’s too taken with the stonings to ask if I need anything else anyway.
I walk home quickly so I don’t have the time to sober up.
Approaching the house, I can see my girlfriend and her boy sitting in the chairs and talking.
I grab a couple rocks from the flowerbed and put them in my pocket.
Opening the door, I hear the boy say, “Stay tuned for our next guest,” before launching into an ad for a security company.
