He found himself in a bar a day after work, not for the drinks, but for the environment. The human race was a powerful current, and time by time he didn’t mind dipping himself into the rapids. Drinks and money flew around like paper caught up in a windstorm, everyone simply riding it until the glasses and wallets settled once again.
    A patron next to him was choking rather intensely; tall glass mugs sat piled next to him, empty except for foam collected at the bottom. Rick patted him on the back. “T-thanks, man,” he said, his eyes crossed.
    A game was on at the back; a few people were watching, and cheered whenever- was it basketball? A goal was scored. The lights were dimmed so hard it was hard to discern anything going on, save for the flashing light of a dance floor in the back. The place was an unruly one, a collecting pot for all the lower-class members of society who couldn’t afford the higher-up. So why was it he found himself attracted to this place? Was it the atmosphere? The lack thereof?
    A beer glass flew by his head, smashing a wall just a few seats away. The man smiled sheepishly; it was the cross-eyed one again. He laughed with a friend and staggered off to the back of the room, where the dance floor was. Someone was banging on the door heavily- there was a scream, and the banging stopped. The music was so loud he found it hard to hear it at all. Someone punched the television.
    Had he missed out on something, in between all of this? Had he missed out on a social life? A time to meet with friends? Truth was he hadn’t talked to many of his old acquaintances for a gap wider than he would have deemed respectable. It was his personality, his introverted self, causing all this- or was it? Did they not like him? Was that why he received no letters in his inbox in the mornings when he drank his coffee leaning against the wall? Not even a blurb for the past month or so? Perhaps this was why he was here- to fill up on his social life again.
    He didn’t know. Was he depressed? Hard to tell. Here were all the patrons- drunk over happiness, drunk over sadness, drunk so that they had a story to tell when they came home, drunk because they didn’t know why not to be. It was all such a sad sight- but they were thinking the same of him, no doubt, as he sat hunched over in a stool.
    He did enjoy his job. He enjoyed what it did to his personality- it kept it in and let him use it. His occupation let him explore, while all the others drooped down to the lowest levels of corporations, cheating themselves by trying to move up a notch. He had it made, some would say. But none would say it; they never knew who he was, never knew who-
    His thoughts were interrupted by an audible shot. A woman in the center of the bar screamed, staggered over to a table, then collapsed. Shouts were heard and the patrons ran out the door, stumbling over passed-out drunks on their way out.
    He was more intrigued than surprised. Rick remained at his stool as the room cleared, bartender included. The music stopped but the television remained on; one of the teams was getting pummeled by the other.
    He crouched down beside her. There was a shot, but no blood visible, not even a hole. She was dead, all right, heart stopped cold along with her skin, pale and cooling off.
    A siren sounded distantly, the sound of an oncoming future he was helpless to stop. He felt her hand softly, her lips sealed to the side as her head nodded listlessly to the touch.
    So the war had begun. Stepping over bodies of sleeping patrons, he made has way to the door, the same stars watching over him as he walked outside.

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