No Refunds

"You think you’re cursed?"

Patrick couldn't contain his simmering glare from peppering the up-until-this-moment kind stranger with as much ill-will as he could muster. He had told his tale a hundred times since hearing his fate. A hundred times of the same questions, same dodgy replies, and the same tactless subversion a friendly conversation could afford. But, he had no other choice, and hoped that this time, the luck of the Irish would be with him.

"I know I’m cursed," he says, turning that glare onto the polished bar top. The stranger winced as Patrick tossed another shot down his throat, the burn welcome in his gut. "Where was I?" One blue eye squinted at the stranger in the dimly lit bar as the stranger sighed and leaned against the counter.

Patrick cleared his throat of the flame that licked from his gullet. "I've always wanted to be a writer, even in my youth, I would pretend to write stories out on blank pages, though that's all they were was pretend-I didn't even know how to write my own name, let alone a story." The bartender glanced from Patrick to the still-listening customer, sliding two more rounds down the slick mahogany with practiced precision. Patrick took the shot like it was butter, and the flames roared to life within him again.

"As with everything, life got in the way and I've not penned a line of prose since my youth, but the passion hasn't left. Just bedded down like a scolded dog only rearing its ugly head in the late hours of the night, when no other thoughts could pucker my brain." The stranger regarded Patrick with a lopsided expression, flicking his eyes to the drink in front of him.

“Don’t misunderstand me, buddy,” Patrick said. “It’s not like I haven’t tried to write stories but every time I sit down with pen and paper or keyboard and coffee, nothing happens. I get no ideas, no muses; I’ve tried going to meetings, interviewing real authors, hell—I’ve even tried just telling a story as plain as the day that passes before me."

The stranger flicked an eyebrow upward. “Nothing?”

Patrick just shook his head, a shadow passing over his face.

"A few weeks ago, I found a way to get that drive back. In a bar just like this, actually. I met a man who could grant wishes."

The stranger made a sound in his throat that brought the glare back on him. "A man who could grant wishes? Like a genie?"

Patrick maintained the tension with a hard set of his eyebrows, inviting an uncomfortable silence between the two. Throwing a wave toward the man behind the bar, Patrick trudged on.

"So I met a man who could grant wishes, and I thought of asking for the usual at first, you know: money, fame, love; a poor man's trifecta of a happy life." Two short glasses appeared in front of them then, and while Patrick greedily slugged his down, the other calmly pushed it away.

"But then I realized I didn't want any of that, I wanted pure happiness, pure joy from life again, the kind of ecstasy reserved for the insanely rich or incredibly dumb. Being neither, I figured this was my best chance at retrieving what I lost to my youth."

For the first time since meeting Patrick, the stranger leaned in, but briefly thought against it as the fumes wafted away from Patrick like a gas tank ready to explode.

"What did you wish for, then?"

Patrick smiled, but not his default dimple to dimple expression. This was more of a smirk laden with merely a promise of a grin.

"I wished for everyone to hear my stories."

"Sounds like you got a deal, I reckon."

Risking a broken neck to twist to face him, Patrick shook his head. "Even on the Saint of Luck's Day, I believe I was still shorted and the receipt kept."

Sparing one brief sideways glance to the untouched drink, Patrick inhales that one too, before continuing.

"I knew there were risks involved when dealing with the supernatural, but the lengths it went to put me out intentionally—just barbaric."

"Did you try taking it back?"

"That's the first thing I tried, but it only gave me the same response as the first ten times I asked. So no, there's nothing I can do, and if I don't tell someone my stories, something bad will happen to me."

"Like what?"

"Something bad—I don't know. Imagine the worst thing a vindictive supernatural creature could procure and there's your answer.”

"Like being stuck in a bar waiting for your friends while a strange man tells you his life story."

Patrick and the stranger exchanged furrowed brows and glossy eyes.

“You don’t get it!” It wasn’t a shout, but Patrick did put his whole breath into it. “If I stop telling my story, it will come for me.”

The stranger didn’t seem fazed by the outburst, leveling a bored expression at him. “Okay, but what exactly is going to happen to you if you stop speaking?”

Patrick paused, the answer not coming forth. He swore he must’ve heard the consequences the same as he heard the fortune. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what they were. But the stranger expected a response.

"He didn't have to spell it out for me," Patrick said. "Everyone knows genies make their customers suffer."

The stranger stood straighter, a small smile pecking the corners of his mouth. "That's just retail customers, friend."

Patrick exhaled forcefully, a dribble of bourbon getting caught in his thin mustache. "If you think you'll have better luck, he's right over there. Maybe he'll grant you the patience of a saint."

The stranger raised an eyebrow, but followed Patrick's gesture nonetheless. "Who? The genie?"

Patrick nods, returning his attention back to the bar and the distinct lack of drinks.

"That's the genie who granted your wish?"

Patrick dipped his chin to his chest, almost rolling his eyes at the question, if they weren't so heavy with booze.

The stranger struggled to contain his laughter, intercepting the bartender's effort to keep the down-on-his-luck patron in high spirits. Whiskey, rich and dark, slid down the stranger's throat silkily with a tease of bitterness, as a good whiskey does.

"Maybe if you gave it one more try, it being St. Paddy's day and all, your genie may give your wish back, or you could ask for a new one." The stranger didn’t wait for a response, flashing an friendly-enough smile at Patrick before disappearing into the ambling crowds of the Irish pub.

Patrick suddenly felt weighed down, like a ton of bricks was dropped on his head. Stumbling off the stool, he meandered through the crowd, head dizzy and stomach doing flips, but he was vaguely aware of each step. The sound of whistles and clunky mechanical whirs drew him toward the front doors, and through his foggy sense of direction, he locked onto the genie encased in glass, its faded green eyes glinting at him without emotion. The slot below the genie's tomb beckoned for a dollar in return to hear a fortune.

"Nice try but I ain’t falling for it again," Patrick slurred toward, or rather, in the general direction of his nemesis. He stopped, looking his enemy in the face, or what he supposed was the face.

The liquor made the act of identifying anything of resemblance quite difficult, and if Patrick had a wit's worth of sobriety in that moment, he would've noticed the very thing that would free him of his curse.

But Patrick walked off, using the wall for the majority of his journey to the urinals.

And the genie watched with animated interest, the blinking lights below him beckoning the next wallet to its robotic voice and for the next fool to believe its words.