Last Orders

And I looked and behold, a pale horse
And his name that sat on him was Death 
And Hell followed with him.

-Revelation 6:8

"Time at the bar, gentlemen!"

Gary rang the bell, signalling closing time at the Pale Horse. He loved to ring the bell – it was his nightly ritual. Twice nightly, actually. Sometimes, when the regulars like Lloyd wouldn't leave, he even let himself ring the bell a third time.

That wouldn't happen tonight, though. It was Monday night. No-one ever stayed late on Monday night. One day, something interesting would happen on a Monday. Gary knew this: just as he knew that Lloyd would appear at 6 o'clock every evening to prop the bar up. One Monday, the bar would collapse on him. Or Lloyd wouldn't turn up. It hadn't happened tonight, though. Nor the Monday before. In fact, something interesting had failed to happen on every Monday in Gary's memory: which was probably why he hated Mondays. Even the word was rubbish – heavy and charmless, like a sack of potatoes. Monday. Monday was just the sort of day when--

-- he was upsetting himself. He drew in a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. He ran a cloth across the bar top. He considered ringing the bell again, to cheer himself up, but didn't really have an excuse.

"Alright Cass, you may as well head home," he said to Monday's bargirl - another waste of time. "I'll finish up."

"Thanks Gal!" she replied, throwing a dishcloth onto the bar and diving into the back room. It was funny, Gary reflected, how much quicker she moved when leaving a shift. She was a sweet thing really, just not much use in a crisis.

He leaned his landlord's bulk on the bar. He looked across at the evening's patrons, trying to decide how quickly he'd be able to shut up for the night. Ever-faithful Lloyd wasn't far from clearing his ale; but Derek still cradled a stout half and a long short.

Gary was about to offer words of expediency but was cut off by the front door slamming open. A rush of freezing air blew into the pub, carrying with it the unmistakable snort of a horse. A cloaked figure strode inside, metal clinking from somewhere in his black robes. He appeared to gaze slowly around the room, apparently heedless of the chill wind which followed him. Held outstretched in one arm was - Gary squinted in disbelief - was that a scythe?

"Hoi!" he shouted at the stranger. A dark cowl turned to face Gary's way; two tiny red points staring sightlessly out of its shadowy recess.

"Door!" he added, pointing for emphasis.

MY APOLOGIES, the stranger said in a peculiarly resonant tone - a voice that was somehow not a voice. It occurred to Gary that the stranger hadn't really said anything: the words had just sort of... appeared in his mind. This sort of thing didn't bother Gary: he had worked in bars on West Street for fourteen years. What was a paranormal patron compared to a hairdresser's Christmas party? These days, he was mostly just relieved to serve customers who didn't have fake tans.

As the door slammed itself shut (another fact which struck Gary as passing strange), Gary glanced across the bar. Lloyd and Derek had twisted around to stare at the newcomer, jaws hanging dumbly.

"Have you got a license for that?" Gary demanded, nodding toward the stranger's scythe. It was a vicious looking thing - the long blade flecked with rust, nocked cruelly along its curved edge. The shaft was of blackened, twisted wood.

YOU MIGHT SAY, spoke that voice which was not merely in the night, but somehow of the night, THAT I AM THE LICENSER.

"Uh, right," was all Gary could summon in response. A moment of silence descended, landing like an unsubtle innuendo at a funeral.

"Alright Gary I'm heading off," Cass's voice filtered through from the back room. "I've left my shoes in the- OHMYGOD!" she cried, halting as she reached the doorway.

"Uh, Gary," whispered Derek, leaning across the bar. "What..." he paused, fishing for articulation. "What the fuck?"

A LARGE GORDON'S, BARKEEP. NEAT.

"Bar's closed, mate," Gary said, turning his bulk towards the unnatural voice. "And I really think you should leave that outside," he added with a nod toward the scythe.

THESE GENTLEMEN ARE STILL DRINKING, the stranger said, quite reasonably, stretching a thin arm along the bar. As if to prove a point, Lloyd downed the rest of his ale, gulping greedily.

"These gentlemen ordered before the bar closed," Gary retorted.

The door slammed open again - a gangly figure swaggering into the room.

"Guys, you won't believe this. There's the weirdest fucking horse stood outside the..." he stopped as his gaze fell upon the robed figure.

"Alright Randy!" greeted Lloyd with impressive levity.

"Uh, never mind. I'll, er, I'll tell you about it tomorrow," Randy stammered, turning and exiting the pub. Gary had never seen anyone 'hightail it' before - but he was pretty sure that was what Randy had just done.

LOOK, the figure began again, striding up to the bar. YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE THE DAY I'VE HAD. THERE'S A PEASENT'S REVOLUTION IN ALPHA CENTAURI. VERY LOUIS SIXTEENTH, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

Four slack jaws hung in a manner which said, quite firmly, that they did not.

AND ALL I WANT IS A DRINK.

"Sorry mate," said Gary, gathering himself. "Last orders have gone."

LAST ORDERS?

"S'what I said."

The figure carefully propped the scythe against the quiz machine before replying in a leaden tone:

THEY MAY YET PROVE TO BE.

"Look, if you're lucky the Cheeky Fiddle will still be open. It's just two minutes drive. Uh, ride."

The stranger slumped onto the bar, hanging his head wearily. With a pale hand, he pulled the hood back to reveal a yellowed skull. He ran a hand across the top of his skinless scalp, causing a dry, scraping sound to eke its way across the room.

"Oh my God..." Cass breathed, in case anyone hadn't heard her the first time.

ALRIGHT. HOW ABOUT I BUY A FINAL ROUND FOR EVERYONE?

Lloyd perked right up at this.

"What?"

"No," Gary said, shooting a glance towards him. "Besides, I could get my license revoked if I get caught after hours."

"We won't tell anyone, will we Derek?"

"Hmm?" replied Derek, eyes not leaving the stranger's shining skull. "Won't.. tell.. anyone."

"Fine," Gary relented with a sigh. "You got any money hiding in that getup?"

The stranger reached into the blackened folds of his robes: pulling out a huge coin. It was about the breadth of a pint glass and appeared to be made out of solid gold.

"And what do you expect me to do with that?" Gary scowled.

IT IS MORE THAN ADEQUATE PAYMENT.

"Is that gold?" gasped Lloyd. "'ere, Gary, you could get up to two hundred and fifty pounds for that!"

Gary wasn't impressed.

"Seriously - you send your gold in to these guys and they send cash back. There's adverts all over the telly."

"He's right, Gal," Cass added. "Let 'im get a round, eh? We don't want no trouble."

"One drink," Gary conceded, roughly seizing the coin from the stranger. "Gordon's, was it?"

LARGE. SLICE OF LEMON, IF YOU HAVE IT.

"Same again, lads?"

Lloyd and Derek nodded. Derek's eyes remained locked on the stranger.

"Cass, want to help me out here?" Gary asked, filling a tumbler with gin. "Help yourself," he added.

They served up the drinks – Gary wasn't too proud to pour himself a generous brandy. When the round was delivered, an awkward silence descended once more. Eyes flicked nervously from glass to cowled skeleton and back to glass again. The stranger slowly, impossibly, sipped at his gin; apparently oblivious of the atmosphere.

MY THANKS, he said, finishing the clear liquid and pulling up his cowl once more. NOW YOU TRULY HAVE SERVED YOUR LAST ORDERS.

The stranger took up his scythe and strode from the room, letting in the whistling wind for a moment as he swung the door open.

"What," began Lloyd after the door had slammed shut, "did he mean by that?"

The bell at the bar chimed once – long after the wind had swept through the room. A chill spread down Gary's spine.

"It means its time for you to go home, Lloyd."

The hairs on your arm will stand up
At the terror in each sip and in each sup.
Will you partake of that last offered cup?
Or disappear into the potter's ground
When the Man comes around.

-Johnny Cash; When The Man Comes Around