The strange man at the bar

A man wandered into the tavern who you couldn't mistake for anything but trouble. The stench hit first—sharp and sour, a stomach-turning blend of stale urine and cheap booze that seemed to follow him like a cursed cloud. Heads turned, not out of curiosity, but like folks do when they hear a glass shatter and know there's about to be a mess.

What really caught the eye, though, was the coat. It wasn’t just long—it was massive, draped over him like he’d skinned a bear with his bare hands and thrown it over his shoulders without bothering to cure it. The fur was thick and wild, matted in places, with patches darkened by god-knows-what. It gave him the look of some half-mad mountain hermit who’d come stumbling out of the woods for his first drink in years.

He didn’t so much walk as sway, each step uncertain, like the ground itself was shifting under him. He bumped into a couple of chairs, muttered something half-slurred under his breath, then zeroed in on the bar like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Without asking, he dropped onto the stool beside me, the old wood groaning beneath the weight of him and that beast of a coat.

His eyes were bloodshot, glassy, and strangely sharp all at once—as if behind the drunken haze, something was still wide awake and watching.

—--

"What’s it to be then, lad? You here for a pint or just takin’ up space?"

“I’m lookin’ for a sip of a—” he started, then paused mid-sentence like the words had slipped through the cracks in his booze-soaked brain.

Christ, the reek off him. It hit me all over again, like someone’d soaked a mop in piss and moonshine and wrung it out under my nose. I shifted on my stool, edging just far enough away that our sleeves wouldn’t brush. Didn’t stop the smell, though—it clung to the air terribly.

I took a slow sip of my Mojito, the mint and lime doing their damnedest to fend off the assault.

“You—city folk,” he grunted, pointing a crooked, dirt-caked finger in my general direction. His eyes squinted like he was trying to remember the shape of a thought, or maybe just fighting to keep them open. “I dunno what you people call it...” he trailed off, lips fumbling for words like they were marbles rolling around in his mouth.

“But it’s... it’s the water of a beast, see? A certain mammal—rich... delicious...” He smacked his lips like he’d just described a fine wine instead of something that sounded suspiciously close to wild animal milk.

I glanced down at my drink, wondering if I’d picked the wrong night to sit at the bar.

The barkeep—a thickset, middle-aged Irishman with sleeves rolled and shirt stained from a long day of slinging pints—had likely been on his feet since ten this morning, maybe earlier. He’d heard his fair share of drunken nonsense in his time, but this particular scruffy creature had him genuinely baffled.

He leaned forward, arms braced on the bar, squinting hard at the man like maybe, just maybe, the right angle would make sense of the stink and slur. It didn’t.

“Spit it out proper, would ya? I haven’t the faintest idea what shite you’re on about.”

The ragged man gave no helpful reply—just a satisfied little grunt, like he’d explained himself perfectly.

“Um, Willie…” I muttered, glancing sideways at the bartender.

He turned to me with one eyebrow raised. “What is it, lassy?”

“I think he means... milk.”

There was a beat of silence. Willie blinked, then looked back at the wild-eyed man like he was deciding whether to laugh or toss him out on his arse.

—--

“Yes, that’s it!” he declared, eyes lighting up like he’d just cracked some ancient riddle. “The glorious water... seeping' from a cow’s teat.” He held the moment like it was poetry, then added with a sudden, lopsided grin, “And with a good lash o’ rum, too! Ohhh, bless ye for joggin’ the ol’ noggin!”

Before I could shift away, he slung a heavy, grime-streaked arm around my shoulders, his hand landing with a wet sort of thud. He gave me a few overly familiar pats—like we were long-lost drinking buddies reunited by milk and madness.

I shoved him off—not hard, just enough to make a point. The stench alone was grounds for eviction, but I also had a very personal rule about strangers and their fermented hugs.

“I—It’s no problem,” I muttered, trying to salvage a shred of distance and dignity.

I felt... out of place, to say the least. He was loud and unfiltered, like a man with no inner voice—just whatever came to mind spilling straight out his mouth. Me, on the other hand? I wasn’t built for this kind of back-and-forth. I didn’t do parties, didn’t do crowds, and definitely didn’t do strange men with bear coats and cow-milk cravings.

Talking to him felt like diving off a dock when you don’t know how deep the water goes—messy and maybe a bit dangerous. Honestly, the only reason I was here in this cramped little tavern instead of packed into some booming nightclub with my friends was because the idea of rubbing shoulders with a hundred sweaty strangers sounded even worse than this.

At least here, the chaos only had one face—and it smelled like fermented regret.

I didn’t know the first damn thing about making a drink. Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure what it took to become a bartender—some kind of secret training? A ceremony involving lemons and blood oaths? Who knows. But Willie moved like a man who’d been doing this since the cradle.

I watched as he grabbed a battered bottle, poured in a measured stream of milk—just enough to coat the bottom—and followed it with a generous glug of rum, no hesitation. Not a drop wasted. No flair, no fancy shaker flips, just steady hands and muscle memory. He gave the bottle a few quick shakes, more practical than graceful, then reached for a tall glass already waiting with exactly six ice cubes rattling around inside like old bones.

Without a word, he slid the glass down the bar and stopped it right in front of the man, dead center—like he’d just delivered a verdict.

This man—if you could still call him that—took the glass with both hands like it was some sacred relic, then proceeded to down the whole thing in one long, sloppy pull. A good quarter of it didn’t even make it to his mouth, dribbling straight down his chin and soaking into the tangled mess of fur draped over him.

He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, then—God help me—licked it clean like a mutt that hadn’t eaten in days. But he didn’t stop there. No, with a kind of wild-eyed satisfaction, he bent his neck and started licking the pelt too, his tongue dragging across it like he was nursing the damn thing back to life.

I shivered. Not from the cold, but from the sheer horror of what might’ve lived—and died—in that coat. I didn’t want to imagine the things that fur had soaked up over the years: blood, sweat, spirits, filth... maybe even worse. Whatever it was, it was best left unimagined.

“Another one, uhh… you,” the man slurred, waving a limp hand in Willie’s general direction like he was hailing a carriage that only he could see.

Willie let out a long, worn-down sigh—the kind that comes from years of dealing with drunks who think volume and vague gestures count as manners. “Haah... right,” he muttered, already reaching for the bottle.

One drink turned into two, then three, and on it went. Willie worked like a man on autopilot, mixing milk and rum with the resigned grace of someone who’d seen far worse on a Tuesday.

What caught me off guard, though, was the fact that this wild-eyed, fur-draped wreck of a man kept slapping down cash after every round. Crumpled bills, sticky coins, once even what looked like a casino chip—but it all checked out. For someone who looked like he’d crawled out of a ditch, he had a surprisingly steady supply of money. Not clean money, mind you. But real.

And that, somehow, made him even more unsettling.

“So what brings you 'round these—burp!—parts?” I asked, barely holding the sentence together. “You don’t look like you’re from around here... or even from this country, haha.” I let out a weak chuckle, dragging it along like a dog on a leash. It wasn’t a joke, not really. More like a clumsy attempt at small talk—half-drowned in mojito and nerves.

He turned toward me, his cheeks flushed a deep, blotchy red, glowing like overripe fruit. As he leaned in, the stench on his breath hit me—hot and sour, a blend of rotgut rum, milk, and something darker I didn’t want to name. But the drink was working fast, softening the edges of my senses, and before long even that started to blur.

He scooted a little closer, his coat brushing mine, and while part of me flinched, the rest just kept sipping—willing the glass to stay full a little longer.

“My master…” he muttered, letting his head fall to the table with a dull thud, “...wants me to experience city life. And in her words—‘become human.’”

He said it without irony, without laughter. Like it was gospel.

I gave a half-laugh, more out of instinct than humor. “Haha—next thing you’ll say is you were raised by wolves and you’re destined to be their king or something.”

There was a long pause. Too long.

I squinted at him. “Don’t tell me you actually are the ruler of the wolves or something.”

“Ah… no. Not exactly.” He said it slow, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me. His voice had that hollow, half-hearted tone people get when the lie's too close to the truth.

“Good,” I said, raising my glass again. “I can’t deal with another man like that in my life.” I didn’t elaborate. He didn’t ask.

Still... I couldn’t help but file away the way he hesitated. Like a man who’d left something important unsaid.

“So,” I said, trying to steer things back to normal—or what passed for it tonight. “What’s your name?”

He blinked at me for a second too long, then said, “Call me Elias.”

I nodded slowly. “I’m Lizzy.”

And just like that, the conversation had a name. Two, even. Didn’t make it any less strange.

We stumbled out of the tavern, arms slung over each other's shoulders—not sure if it was out of some sudden bond, the warmth of shared drink, or just sheer necessity to keep from hitting the cobblestones face-first.

We moved like drunks do—clumsy but committed—our steps wide and heavy as we tackled the steep stone stairs out front. Each footfall landed like a giant trying to tiptoe through a world built too small for its bones. The night air hit us like a slap, sharp and cold, but we barely felt it through the haze of rum and whatever strange mix of fate and foolishness had stitched us together tonight.

Maybe it was strange and peculiar twist of fate to meet this man here tonight.

Hope everyone liked it I'm not the best writer but i hope everyone can help me improve.