When I would leave said bar, I would get statements of shock and disbelief that I wasn't staying out until 6am. This used to happen quite a bit, and I was always confused as to why. I had already had a great time with my friends, and the shit they would usually indulge in past midnight was out of my area of comfort.
This is basically a long way of saying I wrote a short and crappy parody of The Road. I haven't read it in a while so probably didn't nail anything too specific. But I enjoyed the general lack of sentence structure
The man walks the barren wasteland, gradually slumping as he realizes the magnitude of his defeat.
The man is alone, like most since the event
At first it seemed a passing phase. Then as days turned into nights and back it worsened. It happened on a larger scale, soon reports were coming in from the furthest of counties.
Then it took the world
The reports stopped
Everything… stopped
The man continues to try walking, but he is out of energy. He falls to the floor, the dust coating his face. He pulls a small bottle of water from his tattered jacket. He sips, but as he does so his face contorts, he can barely keep it down
It’s just not the same
A few hours later the man is startled by noises from the distance.
I can’t believe it
Surely this is a miracle
The man slowly pulls himself up, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He reaches in the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a penknife. Some nights this has been his only friend; some nights it has certainly been his savior.
The man creeps into a nearby thicket and stands motionless as he watches. A group of three hoarders have surrounded a burnt out car. A body lies next to the car, dead for days probably. The hoarders act like it’s not even there, instead focusing all the attention on the trunk of the car
The man moves slowly, deliberately through the thicket. Trying to get a look at what sort of treasures the car contains.
As he finds his vantage point his jaw drops. His dull withered eyes widen.
This is all my fault
The man thinks back to how the world used to be, when the sun would beat down on a hot day and people would laugh and treat each other as equals. Days long gone. The man fights to urge to be sick. He can not give away his location, as he knows that will surely spell the end of him.
The man caused all this and he knows one day it will catch up to him, and when it does he will wish he was among the first to go.
Before this happened, the man had a life
He had friends
He made money
He was happy
He used to go out with people, when the sun stopped shining and visit bars. They would drink, and they would enjoy each others company.
Until
I’m just going to go home
What are you talking about? It’s only midnight
I’m just a little tired man
You have to stay out, we’re about to head to the cross!
I know where we are going, but I have no more money left in my wallet, and I’ve had a great night
Tim will give you two hundred dollars. He won it on the pokies
It’s ok, I don’t need it
Come on bro! This night is going to be so epic
It’s fine, I’ll be at home tomorrow and you can fill me in
That was it. The man didn’t realize what he had put into motion. He didn’t realize there would be no more stories. He thought he was acting in his best interests
But it happened, and it happened fast
The world ran out of beer. It keeps the man awake most nights. Why hadn’t he stayed out? What if he had gone to the strips? Would this have ever happened. The man hangs his head in shame
Down at the burnt out car the three hoarders are fighting. They had found a four-pack of VB, once the swill of a nation, now something as coveted as oil. They each had drank one, and now the decision about the last one had turned fatal.
One of the hoarders leapt upon the other one, beating him until crimson covered his hands. When he turned around to face the other hoarder, he was met with nothing. They had already fled frightened for their life.
The man watched on sadly
I should have been a better bro
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