(Image: Adrian Glass)
“Another double shot Stan?…It’s Stan, your name, isn’t?”
The man nods smiling, he doesn’t reply. Instead points down at an empty glass in front of him.
“Coming up. Out of interest what do you prefer? Rye, malt or corn?” The barman places down the rocks glass with the two shots of amber liquid.
The man sitting at the bar, aged in his late thirties lifts the glass looking at the fluid.
“The Scottish immigrants it’s all they had back in the seventeen hundreds…I mean, Rye is the closest to a single malt.”
“Rye? No, It’s taste, bland, indistinguishable…predictable. Malt whiskey is complex, how you age it, where it is distilled, copper boilers…the whole thing.”
“Hey I’m no connoisseur…” The barman says smirking as continues cleaning a glass. “…I just work here.”
The man sitting at the bar smiles back recognizing the cynicism.
“This weather?” The barman says looking up at the television screen as the weather report begins on the nightly news show.
“Climate what?” The barman replies.
The man sitting at the bar rubs his right index finger over the unusual ring that sits on his left middle finger. “The weather is changing.”
“You believe that?”
“I do, in this reality and other realities the weather changes. Dramatically too. We, the human race actually change it within the program. Like a glitch, kinda interesting if you think about out…Mathematicians have a name for it…” He gulps down the double shot whiskey. Placing the glass back onto the bar counter.
The barman half listening, turns and looks back up at the television screen. “Worst drought on record….And look at that, a super storm about to hit China. So what you are saying is that we did this? Changed the weather?”
“That’s right. In computer calculations it’s called a round off error, a program malfunction, you know when the television signal breaks up, fragmentation. It’s like that. Except, we did this within the construct. Wasn’t supposed to be…” The man stares ahead at the row of various spirit bottles lined behind the bar. “…but it’s all the proof we need, that the whole thing is a simulation my friend. It’s just that we have messed up the physics…”
The barman places the polished glass onto the rack behind him. “What about the dinosaurs?”
“Written in, same with wars, earth quakes, occasion tsunamis, nuclear accidents…The whole thing. All set in stone. Part of the cosmic joke…” The man replies pointing at the television, the digital images freezes, the newsreaders face begins to distort. “…but this, is our own doing. It’s freewill inside the machine.”
“I think you have had too much of that…” The barman replies pointing to the glass of whiskey.
“Maybe…I’ll see you later.” The man gets up and places some notes onto the counter.