Chocolate. He liked chocolate. He orders a chocolate martini. He idly wonders if it's a girly drink or not. But then, what does it matter? It's still alcohol, going straight to his gut because he hadn't eaten anything. Plus, he'll probably chase it with a few shots.

It was early afternoon, but it was extremely dim inside of the bar. As it should be, he supposed. It was fitting to his mood; to the mood of the several people in there. From the outside, the bar is nothing but dark tinted windows, making it impossible to see the inside without putting your nose up to the window.

There's a "Welcome" mat at the double door entrance, but he feels it should say "Bottom of the Barrel," where it's black, cramped, and filthy. There are many hanging ceiling lights on, but they're all on the lowest setting possible. The brightest areas are where the televisions are on; one behind the bar, one in the front right side of the bar, hanging by a ceiling fixture, and one on the left, vice versa.

The bar is only a couple of years old. All of the leather seats are still in tact with hardly any scratches or holes. It is early, so all of the ash trays are clean. The bar is more or less quiet except for the game that's on, and the sounds of clinking glass as the bartender mixed a drink.

He takes out a cigarette and lights it up. He stares at the red embers. Damn it he thinks. Just when I was on the verge of quitting. He was so close to having at least one problem out of his way. Until she came back into his life. Thin, scrawny, bitch. He was certain that if he thought hard enough, he could trace back every ounce of pain and misery that occurred in his life over the last ten years back to her. Forget six degrees of separation; make it three.

Three. The man three stools down from him appeared to be on his third drink. Scotch. There were three patrons in the bar. Everything comes in threes. Then, he thought, if that's true, that means that as soon as she leaves my life again, I'd have to see her one more time, the last and third time, before I die. Fucking threes.

He deeply pulled on the cigarette as he looked at the older man down three stools. He had a large, bulbous nose, and his back seemed hunched. He trembled as he thought that one day, that could be him. Old, alone, getting drunk off his ass at a lonely bar for the dregs, with a protruding gut. He thought of choking her for putting him there. But no, that would be too easy. Maybe hitting her with his car, running over and over her Olive Oil body, leaving skid marks of blood on the blacktop. No, she'd probably die from the initial impact of the first hit. Or maybe a harpoon… It would be glorious. He gave a grin of sick satisfaction.

What does it matter for him to have murderous thoughts? A thought couldn't hurt anyone. So what if he wished her bodily harm? Thoughts were meaningless, as long as he didn't let it evolve into a plan. Plans were bad. They had plans. Of marriage, 2.5 kids, and white, picket fences. Maybe a sheep dog. Though, he had wanted a black Doberman. But what did it matter? For she had gone away, that is, until now.

Why did she come back? The whole situation just left a sour taste in his mouth. Mouth. She has a nice mouth. Her soft, pink tongue could spit fire though. Oh boy, could she cut a man down in size in a matter of seconds. Yea, that's what the bitch did. She emasculated him.

It wasn't fair. But then again, what was? Nothing was fair, and nothing mattered. Not anymore. Except for when she looked at him. Those large, dark intense eyes would penetrate him to the core of his soul. She really burned him. She has to be the devil. She is everywhere, and is all that is evil. Lord knows their relationship was nothing but a trip- to Hell. Yes, she was the Princess of Darkness, who took many forms. Satan, Old Scratch, El Diablo, Beelzebub… but he knew her as Shannon.