Tales from the Pub - The godless ones
November 5th 2006 11:45
This is one strange damn pub. Or should that be one damn strange pub? Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. This is the third time I’ve came here and the Chinese bar tender asked me to look after the bar for a while, said his mother was ill and he had to visit her. I gottta tell ya, I’m not surprised his mother is feeling a bit under the weather, I mean he looks like he is a thousand and one years old himself.
Anyway, that was three days ago, maybe, shit, it could be three weeks ago for all I know. There is a clock, it’s hanging over the back of the bar. The damn thing says the same time as when I came through the door. It’s not stopped, I can hear it ticking. Hell it even chimes occasionally. I’ve tried to count the chimes, but, well, I mean, I count but when it stops chiming I can’t quite recall how many times it actually chimed.
Still and all tending the bar here has its interesting moments. Some of the conversations are worth eavesdropping on. Take those two in the corner for example. They came in about an . . . Damn that clock, they’ve been here for about five beers, only they’re drinking fermented yak’s milk. I think. What ever it is has sure lubricated their vocal chords.
They’re arguing about the existance of God. I’ve been listening to them for the last twenty minutes. The guy on the left is saying. . .
‘There is no god.’
‘That’s what I said, he shot through years ago.’
‘No, no, no, there never was a god I’m telling you.’
‘There was. How many times do you have to be told. He shot through when the churches and organised religion took over.’
‘Nope, there was never no god, or gods for that matter. God was just an invention of religion. Just a threat to hold over people. You know, “Be good or we’ll tell god and he’ll roast your arse for eternity”, sort of thing. Just a threat.’
It was about this point that I realised that there was a third person in the argument but nobody was paying him any attention. He was sitting at the end of the bar, been there all night drinking double Bundy and cokes. I heard him say. . .
`You're wrong, kid, I do exist, you little bastard.'
Now I hadn’t paid him much attention myself aside from giving him a fresh drink every ten minutes or so. Given that I was right in the middle as it were, seeing as the two at the corner table were on my left and the fellow at the end of the bar was on my right I was wondering how fast I could duck.
‘Yeah! Then where did religion come from if there’s no god.’
‘It was just made up by some tribal shaman to get control of the tribe.’
‘There’s not a shaman ever lived that could think up a plan like that.’
`I toll them how to do it.'
‘That kind of talk can get you turned into a toad.’
‘God, you’re thick.
`Youse talking ta me, boy?'
‘Thick? Me? You’re the one believes in gods for fucks sake.’
‘Yeah, you, thick as. If there’s no god, then how can a shaman turn any one into a toad.’
`Can't, gotta ashk me to do it for im.'
‘That’s the point ain’t it. There ain’t no god and shamans are just slick talking con men. Nobody can turn anybody else into toads.’
I turned to look at the guy at the end of the bar just as he raised his hand, I ducked but there was no flash of lightening, no burst of writhing energy or clap of thunder. I looked carefully over the top of the bar, the old dude at the end was pointing at me and said, `Nother Bundy pleash.'
‘Ribbit!’
‘Ribbit? Croak!
Anyway, that was three days ago, maybe, shit, it could be three weeks ago for all I know. There is a clock, it’s hanging over the back of the bar. The damn thing says the same time as when I came through the door. It’s not stopped, I can hear it ticking. Hell it even chimes occasionally. I’ve tried to count the chimes, but, well, I mean, I count but when it stops chiming I can’t quite recall how many times it actually chimed.
Still and all tending the bar here has its interesting moments. Some of the conversations are worth eavesdropping on. Take those two in the corner for example. They came in about an . . . Damn that clock, they’ve been here for about five beers, only they’re drinking fermented yak’s milk. I think. What ever it is has sure lubricated their vocal chords.
They’re arguing about the existance of God. I’ve been listening to them for the last twenty minutes. The guy on the left is saying. . .
‘There is no god.’
‘That’s what I said, he shot through years ago.’
‘No, no, no, there never was a god I’m telling you.’
‘There was. How many times do you have to be told. He shot through when the churches and organised religion took over.’
‘Nope, there was never no god, or gods for that matter. God was just an invention of religion. Just a threat to hold over people. You know, “Be good or we’ll tell god and he’ll roast your arse for eternity”, sort of thing. Just a threat.’
It was about this point that I realised that there was a third person in the argument but nobody was paying him any attention. He was sitting at the end of the bar, been there all night drinking double Bundy and cokes. I heard him say. . .
`You're wrong, kid, I do exist, you little bastard.'
Now I hadn’t paid him much attention myself aside from giving him a fresh drink every ten minutes or so. Given that I was right in the middle as it were, seeing as the two at the corner table were on my left and the fellow at the end of the bar was on my right I was wondering how fast I could duck.
‘Yeah! Then where did religion come from if there’s no god.’
‘It was just made up by some tribal shaman to get control of the tribe.’
‘There’s not a shaman ever lived that could think up a plan like that.’
`I toll them how to do it.'
‘That kind of talk can get you turned into a toad.’
‘God, you’re thick.
`Youse talking ta me, boy?'
‘Thick? Me? You’re the one believes in gods for fucks sake.’
‘Yeah, you, thick as. If there’s no god, then how can a shaman turn any one into a toad.’
`Can't, gotta ashk me to do it for im.'
‘That’s the point ain’t it. There ain’t no god and shamans are just slick talking con men. Nobody can turn anybody else into toads.’
I turned to look at the guy at the end of the bar just as he raised his hand, I ducked but there was no flash of lightening, no burst of writhing energy or clap of thunder. I looked carefully over the top of the bar, the old dude at the end was pointing at me and said, `Nother Bundy pleash.'
‘Ribbit!’
‘Ribbit? Croak!
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