The drunk was obviously not used to his liquor. His face was buried in his arms on the bar. He moaned. He moaned a lot. The bartender gently flicked a small towel across the man's hand. The man looked up.
He was quite pale and a scar ran diagonally across his face. The bartender caught himself looking at the scar rather than his face, for the third time that night.
"You sure ain't drivin', are ya, buddy?" the tender asked the stranger.
The disheveled Dren squinted at the man with annoyance before checking his wrist-watch. He rubbed the back of his neck and then rolled his head around, working out the kinks in his spine.
Dren shook his head slowly then. "Nah, mate. Exercise is in this lad's itinerary."
"What happened?" asked the bartender, as if he cared. But he continued drying a glass. "Girl left ya."
Dren watched him dry the glass and shook his head. He stretched and yawned before straightening his black leather jacket. "Never," said the green-eyed Irishman. "At least...not in the way you think."
Standing up, Dren burped and turned away from the bar. The bartender exhaled and turned away, but Dren twisted around suddenly and reached across the bar counter. He grabbed the bartender, haphazardly, by the collar and pulled him close, their faces only inches apart.
"I made a monster, mate. I made a great deal of monsters, my kind lad. And now they all want me dead...all because I may have killed a god." After he released the frightened bartender, Dren shrugged. "They can't prove a bloody thing."
Moments later, Dren was ambling out into the street, being nearly hit by a taxi. "Oy!" he shouted, "Watch where yer goin', ya basterd!"