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Description
Jones ducked into the pub. Despite the jacket he was holding over his head head, he was thoroughly soaked. After a futile attempt at shaking off some water he made his way to the bar and slumped down on a free chair.

"A stout, please," he said to the bartender.

By the time the glass arrived, he had time to take a look around the gloomy locale. Seemed like it was mostly regulars who had braved the rainstorm for a pint and some company. Like Jones, most of the men here were well past their prime and lived by themselves. And they all made their way to the dark, dank little pub everyone called "The Pit", though it's actual name was... shit he had forgotten. Well, it was on the sign outside, so he'd check it when he left.

There was another thing the regulars had in common, but they didn't speak about that. Jones looked into the white foam of his beer, and snorted. The barkeep had written "piss-eater" with the foam. Would be a real shame to ruin that work of art, so Jones just kept right on looking at it. The little foam bubbles were slowly popping and after some time they were all gone. He took a sip.

A small gust of wind announced the door opening. Then there was the sound of someone, unsuccessfully, trying to shake off some water. The stool next to Jones was drawn out with a small scrape that everyone ignored.

"Stout, please," a voice, slightly deeper than Jones', said.

"Evening, Richard," Jones said.

"Evening, Jones," Richard said.

"How's the weather?" Jones asked.

"Bloody awful," Richard answered.

And that concluded the obligatory socialising, so they both lapsed into silence. Richard's beer arrived. He sat looking into the foam for a long while. Jones watched him watch it. They sipped at staggered intervals.

After a while, Jones' empty glass was exchanged with a new one. A little later Richard got a new one too. There was no buzz of conversation around them. The few other drinkers were all sitting in pairs and none were talking very much, or at all.

Laughter rode in on the wind. A group of youths had opened the door and were making their way inside. Everyone in the pub looked up at them, then attention was turned back to their beers. Everyone were drinking stout. The new group made no attempts at shaking off any water. The rain had perhaps lessened a bit.

The group made their way to one of the long tables placed in the back, then a pair of boys, young men, made their way to the bar. It was obvious that they had already been drinking. One of them bumped into Jones.

“Haha, sorry man, didn't mean. You alright?” he said, while trying to put Jones back. Jones, however, was sitting perfectly fine where he was and brushed the young man's efforts aside.

“Hey man, don't be like that,” the drunk declared. “Come on, man, we're friends, right? Wanna come drink with us?”

“Certainly not,” Jones said and turned a little away.

It seemed the drunk intended to be persistent, because Jones heard his comrade say something like “leave it well enough alone” and “come on, let's get the drinks.”

Jones heard them order a list of strangely outlandish drinks. It seemed he and the barkeep knew about equally much about fancy drinks, because the man behind the bar just looked at the two young men as if they had some kind of disease and he was wondering if it was contagious.

The two young men sputtered out their list a second time. The barkeep reached behind his back for a bottle of decent whisky. He then poured a shot glass and downed it. The young men exchanged glances, then seemed to decide upon a less ambitious order.

Eventually they made their way back to their friends while carrying a couple of trays loaded down with glasses and bottles. It was a miracle that nothing fell and broke. No eyes followed them as they made their way back, there was no need.

Once the drinks arrived over at that table, there was a sound explosion when everyone, but especially the girls, complained about not getting what they wanted. And then there was clinking of glasses and some singing. Jones got another stout. “Wankers” was written in the foam. He nodded and took a sip. Then an arm was placed on his shoulders.

“C'm on, man. 'ave a dr'nk,” was slurred in his ear. “C'm on, mate, wanna be friends.”

Jones stood up.

“I am not you friend,” Jones said. “Please remove your arm.”

The other regulars had gotten to their feet as well. The arm stayed quite firmly where it was. And then it fell to the floor. There was some loud giggling from the group of young ones.

“Thank you,” Jones said, and sat back down. So did everyone else.

When the armless man started screaming his companions started to take notice. An then they all started screaming. People just aren't supposed to be nice and whole one minute and in pieces the next.

The group rushed for the door. None of them made it.

Description
Jones ducked into the pub. Despite the jacket he was holding over his head head, he was thoroughly soaked. After a futile attempt at shaking off some water he made his way to the bar and slumped down on a free chair.

"A stout, please," he said to the bartender.

By the time the glass arrived, he had time to take a look around the gloomy locale. Seemed like it was mostly regulars who had braved the rainstorm for a pint and some company. Like Jones, most of the men here were well past their prime and lived by themselves. And they all made their way to the dark, dank little pub everyone called "The Pit", though it's actual name was... shit he had forgotten. Well, it was on the sign outside, so he'd check it when he left.

There was another thing the regulars had in common, but they didn't speak about that. Jones looked into the white foam of his beer, and snorted. The barkeep had written "piss-eater" with the foam. Would be a real shame to ruin that work of art, so Jones just kept right on looking at it. The little foam bubbles were slowly popping and after some time they were all gone. He took a sip.

A small gust of wind announced the door opening. Then there was the sound of someone, unsuccessfully, trying to shake off some water. The stool next to Jones was drawn out with a small scrape that everyone ignored.

"Stout, please," a voice, slightly deeper than Jones', said.

"Evening, Richard," Jones said.

"Evening, Jones," Richard said.

"How's the weather?" Jones asked.

"Bloody awful," Richard answered.

And that concluded the obligatory socialising, so they both lapsed into silence. Richard's beer arrived. He sat looking into the foam for a long while. Jones watched him watch it. They sipped at staggered intervals.

After a while, Jones' empty glass was exchanged with a new one. A little later Richard got a new one too. There was no buzz of conversation around them. The few other drinkers were all sitting in pairs and none were talking very much, or at all.

Laughter rode in on the wind. A group of youths had opened the door and were making their way inside. Everyone in the pub looked up at them, then attention was turned back to their beers. Everyone were drinking stout. The new group made no attempts at shaking off any water. The rain had perhaps lessened a bit.

The group made their way to one of the long tables placed in the back, then a pair of boys, young men, made their way to the bar. It was obvious that they had already been drinking. One of them bumped into Jones.

“Haha, sorry man, didn't mean. You alright?” he said, while trying to put Jones back. Jones, however, was sitting perfectly fine where he was and brushed the young man's efforts aside.

“Hey man, don't be like that,” the drunk declared. “Come on, man, we're friends, right? Wanna come drink with us?”

“Certainly not,” Jones said and turned a little away.

It seemed the drunk intended to be persistent, because Jones heard his comrade say something like “leave it well enough alone” and “come on, let's get the drinks.”

Jones heard them order a list of strangely outlandish drinks. It seemed he and the barkeep knew about equally much about fancy drinks, because the man behind the bar just looked at the two young men as if they had some kind of disease and he was wondering if it was contagious.

The two young men sputtered out their list a second time. The barkeep reached behind his back for a bottle of decent whisky. He then poured a shot glass and downed it. The young men exchanged glances, then seemed to decide upon a less ambitious order.

Eventually they made their way back to their friends while carrying a couple of trays loaded down with glasses and bottles. It was a miracle that nothing fell and broke. No eyes followed them as they made their way back, there was no need.

Once the drinks arrived over at that table, there was a sound explosion when everyone, but especially the girls, complained about not getting what they wanted. And then there was clinking of glasses and some singing. Jones got another stout. “Wankers” was written in the foam. He nodded and took a sip. Then an arm was placed on his shoulders.

“C'm on, man. 'ave a dr'nk,” was slurred in his ear. “C'm on, mate, wanna be friends.”

Jones stood up.

“I am not you friend,” Jones said. “Please remove your arm.”

The other regulars had gotten to their feet as well. The arm stayed quite firmly where it was. And then it fell to the floor. There was some loud giggling from the group of young ones.

“Thank you,” Jones said, and sat back down. So did everyone else.

When the armless man started screaming his companions started to take notice. An then they all started screaming. People just aren't supposed to be nice and whole one minute and in pieces the next.

The group rushed for the door. None of them made it.