bobby fontaine [D7] done

Sober men speak in whispers, but drunks yell at the top of their lungs, spilling secrets as carelessly as they spill their drinks. If you work here long enough, you get to hear all sorts that you wish you didn't hear. But once something's heard it can't be unheard - it becomes written against your existence in terrible ink.

Sometimes there's laughter. Sometimes they link arms, laughing with such merriment, singing songs from the old days - but there's a sadness underneath it. Those days are gone. The blissful eternity of youth fades for everyone, and with that comes a bitter acceptance of one's own mortality. I can't pretend to understand that, still burning in the twilight of me youth, but I recognise the look in a man's eyes when I see it - the ghosts of their past glazing over their eyes as they sip their way slowly through another ale.

Me old man won the deed to the Black Horse back in his better days. I don't know the full story, everyone tells it different and there's a lot of parties who have their own interpretation over how a man as young as he came to own a pub. Some say he cheated, others say he was the luckiest bastard alive. Liar's dice was the game, and a deal was made - some say under the influence of many beers and spirits, others say it was under the influence of a knife.

Goes without saying that growing up a pub isn't exactly a normal upbringing, especially when you're old man's a scoundrel. Everyone loves Robbie, youngest landlord in Seven. Never a more charismatic man serve you a drink around town, never a more gracious and entertaining host. Or at least, he was, before he got hitched, had kids, and had to grow up. Still a fookin' bastard and a scoundrel, cheats on me ma' every other weekend, and comes home drunk at the ripe old age of fifty-five.

I make sure to tell me mother that I love her, and she usually gives me a slap around the back of the head and tells me to come home alive so I can clean the glasses from the night before.

When the sun rises, Jules and the others carry any casualties down the hill and toss them into the river. Dead, nearly dead, or just paralytic drunk, they all go in, one-two-three, splash. None come up.

They said I had me dad's thick, black hair - so I shaved it off. Buzzcut for best part of a year, no girls went fookin' near me till I grew it out again. Can't stand bein' associated with that fooker, doesn't help me mam named me same as him, so I changed it to Bobby. No chance I'm goin' around the pub everyone callin' me Robbie Jr. or no shit like that.

Friends ask me: Bobby, what's it like workin' in a pub where everyone gambles at such high stakes? I say best not to pay it no mind, and don't get too friendly with no-one either. Made that mistake when I was pulling pints at thirteen and thought it was me job to be nice to everyone.

Truth is, some people win fortunes playing dice or cards, but most? Most lose everything they have.

The people who do best are those with nothin' left to lose.

The old man, he closed his eyes and drank himself into sweet honey ale tasting oblivion about a year ago. The dogs found his body the next morning, face down in the river. Like everyone else, in the end, was old Robert Fontaine.

Pub's mine now, s'pose, by birthright. Mam doesn't care too much, says what she always says: Do what the fook ye want Bobby.

Usually do.