It’s a trip overseas to Canalave. He finds the local haunt and places himself firmly in the centre of it all. Still sober, he finds himself chatting with the barkeep, who slides him one ‘on the house’. It’s good, the local liquor, a portent sweetness, and he drinks with abandon. He now thinks the chatter annoying and reminiscent of his father’s blabber.
He loves the rush that the alcohol brings to him; sends his mind to another realm and his veins with the fires of passion. When he finds himself outdoors for a smoke, he eyes three young men heading out of the bar, clearly intoxicated as he. Allen lights the cigarette with an unsteady hand and puffs, filling his lungs with the toxic perfume.
The three men are chatting wildly, and Allen, the fool, mumbles, rather loudly: “Shut it.”
The next thing he finds himself pinned against the wall. “Say that again, darling,” the youngest of the group, and the clear leader of the pack says, hissing and smiling dangerously.
Allen spits in his face.
He does not notice a younger man walking up to the group with their fists raised. Allen feels the blood drain from his face, and his already pale face is paler still. He soon tastes blood.
“One more thing, darling. Next time, I won’t go easy.” As they walk away, he spits in their direction. “Easy?” he shouts after them, “The only thing easy about this is you three!”
He finds the men turning on their heels and as quickly as they left, they surround him with their fists raised once more. Allen, whose cigarette had long stubbed out, braces himself for impact.
