As soon as he arrived at the bar, he had a

beer

in hand. The golden lager vanished in three gulps. A long, loud belch escaped from his barrel chest. Some people at the bar peered over. His coworkers laughed. The bartender got him his second beer un prompted.

That beer disappeared even quicker. Two gulps.

Then a different, heavier beer arrived. An IPA. This he sipped slow. He already had a buzz going now. And the IPAs would take him deeper into a buzz. Until he'd switch over to drinking whiskey neat. No ice. No soda.

Derek Smith was a sight to be seen. The bartender had noticed him first time he'd walked in. Six foot Seven. Nearly three hundred pounds. Hands like lunch pails. The bar served 24 oz beer glasses. Twice that of a regular can or bottle. In Derek's hands, it looked like he was drinking a regular sized beer.

Over time the bartender learned of his habits. Two beers. Fast. Then one beer. Slow. then the bourbon. Never mixed with anything else. He would sip triple shots of bourbon the rest of the night. One time he'd counted serving him six triple shots. He'd still look sober enough to drive.

This night though Derek seemed extra happy. He kept hovering over another guy. A remarkably average looking man. Derek was occupied with ordering shots for the other man. And kept patting him on the back. The bartender had never seen him before.