It is almost time for the evening rush.
I polish the bottles. I am death. I distribute poison to those who would pay to swallow it, and they leave a tip for their assassin.
From outside it appears as if everything is spontaneous. A great event is happening in this bar. All these people have gathered here by coincidence, to enjoy a spectacular new sense of themselves. They chose to come here and they chose what to drink, or so they think.
Actually the poison is in control. The poison is all around us, in the bottles of whiskey and in the bottles of bleach used to scrub the vomit from the bathroom tiles. It is in the contents of the bottles and it is in the plastic the bottles are made of. The poison seeps out from the floorboards, rubs two tendrils together, and reaches into the pockets.
It would appear that a lot of people are having a good time, but they are puppets of the poison.
Even that janitor, that tolerable janitor, is not a being. He is a ring wiggling on the poison's finger. He works close to the core of things, where the poison is created, its acids burning a hole in time, a hole the money flows into as if a whirlpool.
You see, the poison is not in control. The money is trying to kill us. Through poison, war, weapons, strife created by the money's concentration in the hands of its conscripts the rich.
This bar has been open as long as Dow. The trickle of its employees has sustained us when our business would otherwise have failed. When the Chevrolet plant closed, and Don the best dart player in Michigan left for Decatur to find work, still the Dow people came. When the brewery burned down, and Mike who knew every score of every Pistons game since 1970 killed himself, still came the Dow people.
I hate them.