Blog Noir, Number 1

The cold afternoon was outside, blowing a blizzard that would have frozen over Hades itself. Inside our hero is going over the days events, playing them out in his mind, where did it all go so right?
He managed to pick up a bottle of the Hop Devil IPA, made by those cats at Victory, these guys know how to make beer, He'd had this stuff before but it goes down better than a thirsty toothless hooker and he had to have it again.
It's bitter, almost as bitter as the footballer in the newspaper headlines yesterday who'd wrecked his life on some binge or other.
It's a bit darker than the tango man but not nearly as irritatingly slap-able and our hero could neck this stuff all day long. He'd done it so enough times, it was just a matter of keeping himself under control so that he didn't turn into a jibbering wreck like so many others in so many different bars all over the world, drinking to drown their sorrows for lost love or the unrequited type, drinking to forget the mundanity of their lives as they wander from place to place doing menial tasks given to them by people who were just as bored with it all as they are.
Where would it all end? Not at the bottom of this bottle sister, there's plenty more booze where this came from from, you wouldn't find it in some shitty little dive either, there would be no-one slumped over the bar sleeping in their own vomit, not here, not yet, here there was our hero, here there was the beer.