Jack Danielson AU1 (OVA)

Open on the exterior of the Can't Be Arsed to Name it Properly Pub, or CAtNiP Pub, for short. Don't look at it too closely.

It's a dreary Sunday morning, and the Pub has been packed per its purview, predictably pertaining to the particularly pertinent sparsity of patrons possibly partaking in the pleasantries provided by the perfectly perspicacious proprietor presently I've lost track of what I was saying.

It's cold and gloomy and there aren't many folk at the Pub, which is not uncommon.

Enter Jack Danielson, the most regular of irregular regulars at the establishment, practically living there, the shape of his ass worn into the barstool, the shape of his face pressed against the bartop. Eyes closed, drifting like a plump little angle, so precious. "Thaz juss thuweh iddiz..." he mumbles and stumbles softly.

"Things will never be the same." Replies the bartender, cleaning a glass with a fresh, hot-off-the-presses rag. Peabody Peekrab is his name, though everyone just calls him Methuselah, or, "Meth", for short. That's right, nicknames on nicknames, shut up, you don't live here.

"Hnn," grunts the Horned Man, solitary, stationary, soliloquy from the far corner of the Pub.

"Guhmee 'nother shodda *urp*... Booker's." Slurs Jackie Boy the Daniel Man, peering plaintively at Meth from his unfortunately plastered position against the Pubtop, concontrary to his plastered perspective and personality and et cetera. "Keep 'em comin'..." he adds unnecessarily.

"And they just keep coming," agrees Meth from his holy position at the head of the bar, sliding a shotglass of golden goddess toward our hero.

"Thunksss.." The Jack is Back spits out as he grabs the glass to gobble.

"The gang's all here, eh?" Spouts Spiffy Longjockstring, a rambunctious rad lad from time immemorial, as he saunters steadily into the Pub. Yeah, I guess the Pub only gets three patrons. Meth is probably independently wealthy or something, so he doesn't need to make much off the Pub itself to keep it running. Must be a hobby or something.

"Spuffy, howzzit hangin'?" Slurs Jackson Daniels excitedly at the appearance of his old buddy old pal.

"Down to my ankles, or something!" Spiffy guffaws at his probably super clever joke or something.

"That's the ticket, ha ha, laughter and good times!" Jackie Dan replies, totally still slurring even though the text seems normal because maybe I got tired of typing out slurred speech or something this is my story not yours.

"Beer sour on the rocks, splash of bitters?" Meth asks, already knowing the answer, as Spiffy is not a particularly spontaneous man.

"Nah, I think I'll try something different today!" Chortles Spiffy, undercutting my narration that rank bastard. "How about a... beer! Make it sour, throw in some rocks maybe, aaaaand..." Spiffy kneads his brow, intent on making the best soft pretzel this home ec class has ever seen. "Maybe a splash of bitters?" Finishes Spiffy, really going off the reservation with this one, fucking cunt.

"O-oh... I see." Meth's eyes bulge out of his skull worryingly as he tries to wrap his head around the fact that Spiffy is not getting the same drink he always got. What is happening? Is it the apocalypse? Impending doom? Pigs freezing over and all that?

"Hnn." Grunts the Horned Man from the corner.

"Hmm..." grumbles Meth as he glances toward the window. "I sure wish I installed a window so I could glance toward our impending doom and be horribly shocked by it, leading to wacky hijinks and fun times with The Boys." Meth mutters under his breath, staring a hole through the wall where a window should be, given the earlier bit of narration it is my FIRST DAY GIVE ME A BREAK.

"Nice window you got there, Meth!" Exclaims Mr. Danielson gleefully as he notices for the first time in his long tenure at The Pub the hole in the wall that will henceforth serve as a window. "Mighty fine view of our impending doom." Mr. Jack Danielson proudly proclaims as he lifts his pint of Booker's to take a swig.

"Sure is, now how about that beer?" Spiffy shoots out, irritated at the non-instantaneous appearance of his requested beverage. He is not a patient man, but can Meth really be blamed? He had never made a drink such as this before, and he was totes mentally prepared to make Spiffy's usual! Right monking cunk, that Spiffy.

"Sir, I don't mean to pry, but are you daft? The drink is in your hand, and it is half finished!" Meth gasps in exasperation, being very good at his job and all.

"Heh heh, didn't think you could slip one past ol' Eagle Eyes Meth, didja, Spunky?!" Jack giggles, taking a sip from his pitcher of Booker's, and adding another unwarranted nickname on Poor Peabody's head.

"Hnn." Grunts the Horned Man from His Corner.

I wanted to fit in some sentence about Meth doing meth and it being Meth's meth because Meth is addicted to meth I gueth, or something, but I don't think it's going to fit, so I just wanted to get that out there. You're welcome.

"Hmm..." Meth intones, cleaning the same glass still, it's done for gosh sake, leave it be you monster, as he stares out the hole in the wall at their impending doom. "It's about that time, innit?" He says.

"Why are you saying it like that? 'Innit'?" questions Spiffy correctly, "Isn't your character defined by being noble or proper or high-class or something?"

"What character definition, bruddah? There's no consistency here, breddren!" Meth cackles, shimmying his shoulders and baring a wide, toothy grin as the jukebox begins playing some tonally dissonant classical tune. Pick your poison.

"Thass not treugh... s'lotta cons... const... constsee... Peabody." Jack Danielson very clearly proclaims at the capable barkeep.

"Hnn," grunts the Horned Man from that place.

"Looks like the demons are cresting the hill, not much time left." Muses Spiffy regarding their impending doom while leering at Jack Danielson's ass, what a fine piece, mm-mmmm, so good.

"Yes, quite." agrees Meth, cleaning his glass with great pomp and circumstance.

"They don't stop coming." observes Jack Assielson, sipping from his keg of Booker's.

"And they don't stop coming." agrees Meth, daydreaming about an ocean of clean rags, and nobody around but for him, and a pristine glass.

"And they don't stop coming." concurs Spiffy, licking his lips at the prospect of pillaging Jack Danielson's supple body. But only with consent, and only with candles. He isn't a deviant, after all.

"And they don't stop coming." Jack Danielson offers, doing a handy dandy keg stand with one hand what a man, especially considering his level of inebriation.

"And I can't stop coming!" grunts the Horned Man from the corner of the Pub.

"And they don't stop coming." sweats Meth as he truly realizes the doom that has befallen he and his compatriots, noticing a speck of dust had fallen onto his glass from the ceiling due to the shaking of the Pub caused by the rampaging horde of demons that were upon them.

"And they don't stop coming." Spiffy shakes thoughts of his pure maiden's love for Jack Danielson from his mind so he can focus on more important matters, like finishing his beverage.

"Amd thbggy dollln't spptopph cllominngh." gurgles Jack Danielson, submerged in his pool of Booker's.

"And me too still the thing." grunts the Horned Man from the corner of the bar.

"Guess we were the All Stars all along, eh?" Proffers Meth, cocking an eyebrow mischievously at his empty bar.

He's alone.

Always alone.

Everyone always leaves.

The only constant for him is the rag.

The rag, and the glass.

At least they will never leave.

A single tear rolls down Peabody's cheek as a plaintive smile shudders across his lips.

"And they don't stop coming..." Peabody whispers wistfully.

End scene.






To be honest, I have that song stuck in my head, and that's pretty much the reason for all of this. For any of this. It's pretty catchy, check it out here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eT3BFzSD6YY