Armed with bourbons and scotches and rums

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[Matt's sitting behind the bar, cigarette in one hand, thumbing with the other through a tattered and rather syrupy copy of the Mr. Boston's Bar Guide, which appears to be in the process of turning into something else, if the digressions about the history of ageing barrels as they relate to pirates, and do-it-yourself instructions for a greenhouse

Comments

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[Coughing lightly, Mail enters the room, looking around briefly before making his way to the bar. He does a double-take when he sees another version of himself standing back there, flipping through pages in a book; though this one's smoking and got red hair.

Weird.]

Hey.

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[Oh, that's just not fair, how tall this version of him is. Matt smiles anyway. Not like it's the guy's fault.]

Hey. You new?

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Uh... [How best to answer this one?

A sigh.]

Technically.

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Sounds like you need a drink.

[He eyes this weirdly tall Matt, trying to pick a drink that's a good match.]

Beer? A nice red ale, maybe?

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Sure, whatever. [He sits down on a stool, leaning pretty heavily against the bar itself.] I don't normally drink, but I think today I deserve one. [Or two.]

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[There's a nice-looking copper ale on tap that Matt's indulged in a few times himself. He starts to pour one, tipping the glass to keep from having too much foam.]

You go by Matt, or something else?

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[He gives him a weird look.]

Mail. Why, you go by Matt?

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Yeah. Wammy's, Kira, whole nine yards.

[It's weird to hear his own name out loud. It's been... well, he can't remember, but he's sure it's been a while. He finishes pouring and holds the beer out to Mail.]

You don't have all that?

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Nah, man. Nah. I'm a singer.

Thanks. [Nodding in appreciation, he takes the glass and sips at it.]

I'm guessing you do?

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Whoa. I can't carry a tune in a bucket, dude.

[He gets himself a pint of the same beer.]

I did. Kinda dead now. [He shrugs apologetically, not sure if he's the first to spring this on Mail or not.]

[downtothefilter]

Heh. [A small, slightly proud, slightly embarrassed smile.] I'm actually pretty good, if I say so myself. [Another sip, which he immediately chokes on when he hears that Matt's - yikes - dead.]

H-how're you here, then? [Mail looks him up and down, completely taken aback.]

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Beats the hell outta me. I didn't even know my name when I got here.

[He takes a long sip from his own glass.]

I've known a few people in the same boat.

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Wow. [Another drink; this one goes down without a fight.] How'd you figure it out?

You know a few people in which boat? The not remembering one, or the dead one? [He can relate to the not remembering - well, sort of.

That thought convinces him to take another drink.]

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Lotta people recognized me. [He laughs a little.]

And the dead boat. I've only met one other person who forgot everything on the way in. And, well. We weren't each others' biggest fans.

[downtothefilter]

Heh. Only one's recognized me so far. [A sigh, then a rather depressed drink, maybe a bit longer than he initially intends. He coughs a bit as he sets the glass back down.]

How- [He wants to be careful with this question.] How many people here are actually dead?

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[Matt thinks for a moment, lighting a fresh cigarette off the butt of the old as he does.]

Counting me? Three that I know of. One I suspect. I haven't seen Light in awhile, though.

[He notices the sigh and the cough.] You all right, man? I don't hafta-- [He holds the cigarette up.]