He twisted his fingers around the shot glass, printing it amidst the struggle, he would have to visit the doctor soon. It couldn't be arthritis, not him, he was too young with his life ahead of him. He was building his way to the top, even if his superiors didn't recognize him, they had the same dreams. Soon enough he'd get back into the gym and get the girl, fibromyalgia maybe, his body wasn't worn it was all just a dry spell.
But who had put the scars on his head where hair wouldn't grow? And why did the base of his roots appear so much greyer than the rest of the man's unorthodox black hair, jutting out of his skull like a symbol of the specialness of his genes? He didn't know the answers to all these medical questions, and certainly, neither did the curious bartender-- always dressed like a man from a movie, like it was some Hollywood tribute bar or some convention. He must've been drunk, old, and tired-- wait, no.
Not old.. not old in body, just in mind. The man on the poster was an actor, maybe.. maybe his father. A man more successful than him, who might as well have drowned in the same glass and drifted in the same alleyways. A man always hoping, in that mindless haze, to turn back the clock on his life.