A Toast To The Chief

Everyone is sitting, sipping Molotovs and eating the fragments of pineapple grenade shrapnel floating in their glasses. A pleasant man in a turban pours the cloyingly-sweet diesel-laced drinks from a bottle shaped like some arid desert nation no god-fearing 'merikan ever gave a damn about.

There is a grey-haired gentleman, nicely dressed, ready for double-breasted bomb-drop handshake business droning on with a fiery tongue and a Texas drawl, sweatless brow rattling like a partially-full piggybank - something about progress - and he suddenly leaps up, chair toppling at free-fall speed to hit the floor and stir a cloud of choking dust, makes a sound like a bible slamming shut at the end of a sermon.

He shouts something about a red horse, "REVELATIONS!" and throws his explosively-refined refreshments at the smiling barkeep.

At once the glass flies through the man behind the counter and collides with more glass, shattering the mirror backing the scene.

The bar immediately reeks of burning hair as the drunk in the sinecure suits begins shaking down patrons too shocked, too awed to resist.

He finds little more than blank stares and pocket lint, lamenting, "Who will join me? Who's gonna pay my tab?" as he draws his shiny six-shooter; the clock strikes midnight.

The shaken patrons bear their own weapons and draw 'em, firing blindly into the renegade's gut. Shredded paper and plastic, backed by magnetic strips, pours out of his wounds as he scrambles to escape, as he misses that golden opportunity to utter "Father, forgive 'em 'cause they don't know what they done." and the emergency exit is padlocked shut - he's dead.

The other patrons quibble over who gets the dead man's suit while the corpse is still twitching. The bartender appears from nowhere to whisper into the stiff's ear: "Oh, one of noble birth, you're 86'ed."