Mr. Friday
lived for two things. To drink. And to fuck. And if anyone got in the way of either he was willing to throw hands. Funny enough, he wasn't good at fighting, but always willing. Whenever he lost, the barkeep forced him to pay a fine. "Why do you not make me pay when I win?" The barkeep shrugged. "I thought everybody liked a comeback kid?" Mr. Friday belched while taking a drink of cheap
lager
. "It's bad for business." "Me fighting or me losing?" "Both." "Then why do you only fine me when I lose?" The barkeep shrugged again. "Get me another beer!" Mr. Friday yelled.
One time Mr. Friday bet his mom's house on a
Monday Night Football
game. He didn't have any money on him, but a business man in a nice suit at the bar had told him he would accept Friday's house as collateral. "I don't have a house," he belched before taking a sip of hard
whiskey
. "Well that's a shame. I really think you could win some good money tonight with your bet." "Wait. What about my mom's house? Would that do?" The businessman eyed him suspiciously. "You sure about that?"
After Mr. Friday's mom was living in the streets, Friday was so ashamed of himself that he stopped going to that bar. He tried out a new bar, and then another, and then four more, but then realized that no bar was going to make him happy. It had nothing to do with the bars. It was that he himself was unhappy with himself. He asked himself in the mirror. "why am i such a shit?" and the reflection said back, "because you don't know what you want?" Friday felt the temper inside boil. He threw a fist at the mirror and it shattered. He immediately screeched as his bloody fist sprayed crimson all over the furniture in the
IKEA
. Ten minutes later two large men came and took him away to the police department where he was locked in a cell with other people who probably looked into the mirror and asked the same question he had been asking himself.
"You innocent?" a bald, burley man with many tattoos reading a
Tim Ferriss
book asked him.