“Give me another.” Paul said, holding out his mug.
“You sure? You've had too many already! You could die of alcohol poisoning! Oh god, I don't wanna clean up a body! What if the cops come and think I killed you and then-” Hamilton went on as he usually does.
“Damn right I'm sure, you batty bartender.” Paul frowned, fidgeting with the baguette in his bag.
“Okay...but I'm not cleaning up your body because I don't want the po-”
“Just shut up and give me my beer.” Paul had had a very long and disastrous day, trying to follow his lifelong dream of becoming a baker after fourteen years of waiting. His first creation, the baguette, had been an abysmal failure, harder than rock and just about as edible. So he spent that night, drunken and angry, giving Hamilton the middle finger every other sentence. Only when he left the bar did the fun begin.
“Stupid, idiotic, useless baguette!” He shouted towards the night air, carrying the aforementioned item with him. Outside the bar it was cold, but Paul's inner fire kept him plenty warm. Baking was the fire of his heart, the fire of his soul, the fire of his oven! Yet, with all this passion, he could only turn out what was likely the worst piece of bread ever crafted. Lamenting on his apparent ineptitude while walking home, he heard a bump from the alleyway. “Who-wah-huh?” He spun around in confusion so quickly that his eyes missed the figure stalking out of the alley.
Patrick was soon upon him, holding a knife only inches from Paul's throat. “Hehehe, the voices tell me to kill you. First, though, they ask if you have any last requests.”
“What's the point?” Paul asked, “I obviously can't accomplish nothing worthwhile. Just kill me now.” This came a great shock to Patrick, not used to such an answer. Usually his victims begged for their lives and he enjoyed every ineffective word of it before he cut them down in bloody glory.
“A-are you sure?” Patrick asked, hoping for some kind of struggle. “The voices t-tell me you must have some kind of request.”
“Fine, your stupid voices want me to make a request, huh? Try this baguette.” Paul said, handing the baguette to Patrick who, hoping to get this over with, quickly bit into the baguette with such force that he chipped two of his teeth.
“Aaaaaaaaah!” he cried out, practically in tears. A sudden realization came to Paul.
“I...I could fight crime with my baked goods! Yes, that's it! And then I'll be useful to society!” He said, grabbing up the baguette. “But first...”
Patrick stumbled into the bar, his black eye shining like a beacon, bread crumbs resting in his tangled hair. “We need a beer.” He croaked, coming up to the bar stool.
“Jesus Christ what happened to you? You better not get in a fight in here, because then you might break some stuff or even yourselves and then I'd have to clean up the bodies and then the po-”
“Just shut up! My voices tell me I need a beer.”
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