Scditwe
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Scditwe, obviously drunk, stumbled into an inn for a drink. Bleary eyed, he looked around the tavern until he spied a gorgeous dark-haired Irishman polishing mugs behind the bar. He made his way unsteadily to the bar.
"Connell," he slurred, "gimme a pint!"
"I'm sorry, my friend," Connell replied, "I can't do that. You've already had too much tonight." "Fine! Be that way." Scditwe muttered and staggered back to the street and Connell returned to polishing mugs.
A few minutes later Connell heard a noise at the door. He looked up to see Scditwe Standing in the doorway, staring at him with the most confused look on his face. After a long moment, Scditwe shook his head and approached the bar, his gait not unlike that of a pirate on deck amidst a nasty squall.
At the bar, he locked his blood-shot eyes on Connell's grey-green ones and said with the distinct diction of a lush trying desperately to hide his state, "Connell, I would like some rum."
"Scd, my dear, dear friend," Connell answered, " I love you like a brother, but I cannot in good conscience give you anything to drink when you are in this state."
"Bugger you, you kilt-wearing bag of snot!!!" Scditwe erupted and stormed out, running into the door before remembering to open it.
This scene repeated itself in some form five more times, with Connell's patience slowly waning and Scditwe growing less belligerent as his confusion grew.
On Scditwe's eight entry into the tavern, he again paused at the door upon seeing Connell at the bar. With a resigned sigh he plodded slowly to the bar and sat down on a stool. After a moment he gazed again at his crewmate, his eyes pleading. Connell simply shook his head.
Again Scditwe gave a resigned sigh and asked his long-time friend in a voice drenched with longing for one single drop of rum, "How many bars do you work in?"
