Swinging open the door to Pepper’s, I walked into a wall of wet sour air.  Gross.  This place smells like a locker room.  Why isn’t the AC on?

And why aren’t the lights on?  The only illumination in the bar and grill was the noon sun beaming through the windows’ slatted blinds.

Peeking into the dining room, I noticed it was mostly empty.  At the few tables that were occupied, the diners sat upright in their booths, not talking to one another, with no food in front of them.

The bar was far more crowded, but just as sedate.  Every seat around the bar was taken, but except for the occasional burst of laughter or heaving sob, the patrons sat silent.  None of them had drinks.  The surrounding, dauntingly tall, cocktail tables were mostly vacant, the Synners opting to sit on the ground instead, their backs propped against the reassuring wall.

How can Pepper’s operate like this? I wondered as I squeezed in between two “customers” at the bar.  Wouldn’t corporate shut this franchise down?

As I looked around for the bartender, I recognized some of the same people here from last night.  None of them had changed their clothes.

“How are you doing, buddy?” said Vic, seemingly materializing next to me.  He was likewise wearing the same red t-shirt and black jeans from when I last saw him.

“Dude, where the fuck have you been? I texted you a hundred times!”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Busy.  Busy, uh, meeting people.  Yeah, meeting people.”

“You’re still tripping, aren’t you?”

As an answer, he gave me a creepy toothy Syn smile.  “Do you want to try it?”

“Fuck, no!  I came here to check up on you.  After I get a drink, I’m out of here.”

Vic trotted to the opposite side of the bar.  “Cool.  What do you want?”

“Shit, what are you doing?  Get out of there before you get in trouble.”

“Nah, it’s OK,” assured a 30ish woman slumped against the wall.  Judging from her black slacks, white polo shirt, and pepper green suspenders, she was Pepper’s bartender.

“I’ll have a beer.”

Vic grabbed a bottle of Graf (which he knew was my favorite premium beer) from behind the counter, but before I could stop him, he opened for me.

“Where’s your drink?” I asked, staring at the open bottle.

“I’m good,” he said, with a grin that seemed to extend beyond the confines of his face.

After bringing the beer to my lips, but not taking a sip, I excused myself.

On the way to the bathroom, I was puzzled that I couldn’t access Twitter on my phone, even though I had five full bars of reception.

In the stall, I placed my foot on the toilet seat to retrieve my flask.  Even before unscrewing its top, I could tell it was empty.  In my haste to leave the house to get drunk at the news of my brother’s visit, I forgot to refill it.

“Fuck!” I cursed.

To be continued…

(Or read the story in its entirety in Goddess.)