The noise was growing. All around him, the people were watching the hockey game. Mark sat there staring straight ahead while the rest of the bar was perfectly content hammering their fists and spilling pretzels onto the floor. He couldn’t understand the importance of this game: Sitting there, cheering towards the widescreen. The sport of hockey, for the players, has all you could ask for in a game—the challenges, the adrenaline, the fighting, the athleticism—but not as someone sitting in the bleachers or watching from a bar. It had no real courage in it, no value for the spectator to claim as his own. Like jazz, it is better to play it than to sit back and observe.

“Fucking intense,” Mark heard a patron say. He couldn’t bring himself to watch. This was one reason why the bars never did it for him. Everything has changed. We are all watchers now. No more excitement is to be found.

This was Mark’s first time drinking in this bar and already he forgot the name of it. But no matter how many bars you explore, eventually they all look the same, smell the same, feel the same. He looked down at his beer and wondered if they’ll remember his face, or if he’ll ever want to come back. And with that thought, he decided to create a game of his own: to run up a ridiculous tab, leave without paying, and see what chases after him.

He gulped down the rest of his beer. “Another draft,” he ordered. The bartender reached for the empty pint, filled it and set it back in front of him, the whole time not taking his eyes off the screen. Mark put down half of the pint in one gulp, caught his breath, and finished it. “Another one please.” The bartender returned, refilled, released. Mark put it down and ordered another followed by a shot of bourbon. Then two more. The crowd around him raged on, oblivious to Mark’s drinking. He excused himself and walked toward the restroom.

The fresh booze sloshed around in his gut. He leaned against the wall and aimed into the urinal. He noticed a little bee hovering above the drain and did his best attempt to drown it. It took the duration of his piss to realize it was a graphic stenciled into the porcelain, and he left without flushing.

He returned to the bar and ordered a double bourbon with a beer back. It was the third period with four minutes to go. The favored team was winning. Mark realized he had to get more booze down his throat before the game finished. He downed the bourbon and slugged the pint back. “Another round,” he said. The bartender returned and took the glass away. “After this, you’re finished,” he said. Mark leaned back puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asked. The words came out with more force than he thought. The bartender handed him the beer. “I’ll let you have this last beer, but after this, I’m cutting you off.” The bartender said this with emphasis and it took Mark a few seconds to realize that everyone had suddenly turned from the game to watch the commotion between him and the bartender.

Mark hiccupped and snatched the glass away. Everyone returned to the hockey game. Mark looked down into the glass, sipped it gently. He felt scolded, like a little kid being told “No” for the first time ever. Well, fuck them, he thought. Who is he to tell me when I’ve had enough! I can’t wait to leave a stamp on this shithole after they realize I’m not paying. He chuckled. I must be costing them over a hundred bucks in free booze! The excitement alone gave him a thrill. Me, he thought, beating these fools at a game in which I created! They will never forget me or what I have done! I’ll do it outside of every major city! I’ll travel across country drinking as much as I like, never paying for a drop! I’ll be known as the phantom that could not be stopped, who drinks and drinks, and leaves when he says they have had enough! No one could beat me—just give me your best shot! I’ll tear your arm off and ram it up your ass! No one will be able to stop me! Not you, not them, all of you fucking simple-minded sheep and your simple-minded entertainment! I’ll give you entertainment!

Mark slammed the glass on the bar and spun around in his stool. When his feet hit the ground his knees buckled and he collapsed into the cold floor amidst the broken pretzels and discarded peanut shells. As he hit he heard them cheering. More debris from the bar top rained upon him and Mark shut his eyes.

He heard their voices shouting in tongues over him. The ground was on a rotator belt; the world was speeding up on its axis. Immediately the hot flashes kicked in, followed by the rush from his gut coming quickly. All that free booze, sloshing in his twisted gut. But without his strength he was helpless. Mark’s body convulsed in spurts as it all began regurgitating out through his mouth and nose. It came like a clogged fire hose and quickly spread across the bar floor.

The noise above him settled abruptly, and then started back up in the sounds of repulsion and anger. “What the fuck!” he heard someone say. Then, “Oh, fuck, he’s gone! He’s puking!” Followed by “Shit! My shoes!” and finally the bartender saying, “Somebody pick him up, get him the fuck out of here!” Mark could barely open his eyes before feeling the grip of strange hands around the collar of his coat and the sudden force of being yanked to his feet. “Thanks for being a fucker, pal!” When he opened his eyes the door with the neon “Exit” sign above it came rushing at his face. He didn’t have the reflexes to block with his hands and the door was opened by the blunt force of his forehead.

In a flash Mark collapsed on the wet cement outside next to a fire hydrant. The flashing lights of a police cruiser were in the close distance and Mark’s last hazy memory before falling unconscious was hearing the disgusted words, “What a way to ruin the fucking game.”

• Short Stack