I grabbed the glass, tilted it just so, and pulled the pump handle with the well-practiced grace of a man who’s poured more pints than he’s had hot dinners. A beautiful golden stream of ale flowed—then spluttered and died like an old car engine. Typical. First pint of the day, and I was already being sent to the cellar.

  "Hold your horses," I muttered, wiping my hands on the rag that looked like it had seen better days. "Barrel’s dry."

  Dave, my 9 AM regular, gave me that look like I’d just told him the pub was closing down. His eyes narrowed at the half-poured pint as if it had betrayed him personally.

  "A bad omen, that is," he grumbled, slouching back on his stool. The pub looked as rundown as it always did—stale beer, a bit of smoke lingering in the corners, and wallpaper peeling like it had given up years ago. “First pint of the day, and you’re already running on empty. What’s going on, Guv?”

  I raised an eyebrow. "Bad omen? Dave, it’s a pub, not some gypsy caravan. Barrels run out. We change 'em. Nothing to get worked up about."

  Dave tapped his fingers on the bar, his knuckles knocking against the wood that had been worn smooth by a hundred years of elbows. "Could be worse, mate. Could’ve been a bloke who’s had a rough night trying to get a pint at this hour and you’re out of stock."

  "Monday mornings are always rough," I replied, grabbing the rag again. "I’ll be right back with a new barrel."

  I turned and made my way toward the cellar, the steps creaking like they always did, the smell of damp and old wood hitting me the moment I reached the bottom. The cellar was as grim as it ever was—dark, musty, and cluttered with old crates and forgotten boxes. I grabbed the new barrel, giving it a push, but it wasn’t an easy one. With a grunt, I managed to get it into place, twisted the tap, and heard that satisfying crackle as it started to settle in. I was almost there—just a few more twists to get it right and my Monday morning would be saved. I twisted the tap one last time, and there it was—the satisfying gush of beer flowing smooth and easy into the barrel. I stood there for a second, wiping my forehead on the sleeve of my shirt, feeling a bit too smug about getting the bloody thing sorted. “That’s better,” I muttered to myself. A quick pint for Dave, and I could get on with the day.

  Then came the sound.

  It wasn’t a crash, not a bang, but a noise so furious it could only be described as the world’s angriest cat. A growl followed by a hiss, and then—BOOM—the bloody barrel erupted with all the fury of a pissed-off elephant. The pipes jerked forward like a wrecking ball, and before I could blink, they slammed into me with the force of a bloody Volvo. I was sent sprawling back onto the floor, the cold, damp concrete slapping me hard as beer exploded everywhere, soaking me through. For a moment, I lay there, stunned, staring up at the cracked ceiling and the dim, flickering light above me. My body felt heavy, almost like I couldn’t move, the weight of the mess pressing down on me. And then—what the hell?—I saw it.

  I wasn’t in it.

  I was... above it.

  My body, sprawled out in that beer-soaked mess, looked more like a discarded rag than anything human. The ragged T-shirt clung to my chest, soaked through with ale, the once-pristine bar towel now twisted into some sad excuse for a cape. My arms lay limp, and my legs were splayed out at an awkward angle. The whole scene was a disaster—beer dripping off me like I’d been dunked in the stuff for fun, and I couldn't even feel it. I floated higher, the view pulling me up, past the mess, past the cluttered shelves and damp pipes, until I was hovering just above it all. I could still see my body, the lifeless shell of Harry Block, soaked to the bone in ale. It wasn’t pretty, but it was me—or it used to be. I felt a weird, detached calm, like I was watching a stranger in a bad sitcom.

  And then, before I could process it, I was floating out of the cellar, my body left behind like some old, discarded coat. I drifted through the pub, the air oddly cool against my invisible skin, heading toward the bar where Dave was —helping himself to the bloody tap, like he was the only bloke in the place. His gob was practically glued to the stout tap, the beer pouring so slowly it could’ve been a bloody slow motion montage. The pour stretched on forever, like he had all the time in the world, taking sweet, sweet liberties with my tap. The bloody cheek of him.

  I watched, disbelieving, as gob filled to the brim, his eyes fixed on a second tap like he was about to start worshipping it. He didn’t even notice me—no sign of recognition. Maybe it was because I was floating a foot above the ground, or maybe it was just because he was too busy with the pint to care.

  I wanted to shout, to tell him to get his hands off my bloody tap, but of course, nothing came out. Instead, I just hovered there, watching him like a ghost—my body below, sprawled out in the cellar, still a beer-soaked casualty of the blasted barrel explosion. The whole scene was as absurd as it gets. It was like I was floating in some weird dream, detached from it all, feeling about as pointless as a coaster at a dry wedding. I couldn’t even make a fuss. No yelling, no stomping about. Just me, watching Dave, the bastard, as he leisurely filled his gob like the pub was his personal tap room.

  I felt like I was floating for bloody ages, just drifting in that strange, beer-soaked limbo. Everything around me was fuzzy, suspended in time, like I was stuck in some kind of strange holding pattern, not quite here but not quite gone. The feeling was wrong—like I wasn’t really part of the world anymore. It was that same dead-floating sensation, like I was drifting without control, disconnected from everything, as if I was still lying there in the cellar, face down in a puddle of beer.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  All I could think about was Dave, bloody Dave, happily drinking my pub dry. The bastard hadn’t even noticed I was gone. There he was, in my head, swilling back pint after pint, his greedy gob stuck under the tap like it was his personal fountain. I was supposed to be running this joint, making sure the beer flowed properly—not having it poured into Dave's belly like it was some sort of free-for-all.

  Then, like that same bloody Volvo that had hit me earlier had somehow reversed over my dead corpse a second time, I was yanked back with all the subtlety of a truck slamming into a brick wall. I came crashing down, the impact so hard it felt like my bones had been rattled loose. My vision was a blur, spinning faster than a Saint Patrick day hangover. My head throbbed, my chest squeezed like someone had given me a bear hug from hell. As my eyes cleared, the world around me finally started to settle, but what I saw wasn’t the pub. It wasn’t even the bloody cellar. No, I was in a forest. Thick trees loomed overhead, and the air smelled fresh—unnaturally fresh. What the hell had just happened? One minute, I’m covered in beer and as dead as dead can be, the next, I’m in the middle of nowhere, with no idea how I’d gotten there.

  With little else to do and no clue where I was, I just started walking. The forest stretched on forever, thick trees surrounding me like some kind of twisted maze. It felt surreal, like I was stuck in some bad dream. I had no bloody idea how I’d gotten here, but all I could think about was the pub. My pub. The one I’d bled for, poured pints in, mopped up spilled beer and broken glass for years.

  And Dave—bloody Dave—swilling back my stock as though it was a free buffet. What the hell was that idiotic barman Stuart going to do when he found my body? I could already picture it: the clueless sod would probably walk past me, thinking I’d passed out on the floor after a particularly messy night. He’d find me, take one look, and probably get a pint of his own before he even thought to call the police. He wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, that one.

  I couldn’t stop myself from moaning, still going on about Dave and the pub I now technically didn’t have anymore. "What am I supposed to do now, eh?" I grumbled to no one in particular. "Walk around in the bloody woods with no pint in my hand? Terrific." My voice echoed back off the trees, but no one was there to hear it. Still, I kept walking, hoping for something—anything—to make sense of it all.

  But nothing came, so I kept walking way into the late afternoon. Now I was a publican meant for standing behind or leaning on the bar. At the very least sitting on a bar stool surveying my beer and cigarette stained kingdom. Not walking through the woods, its not normal I tell you! But as I had no choice I walked on until I finally found a dirt road, so like all good university students, hippies and youth of a questionable nature stuck my thumb out to thumb a ride, that is of course if they whoever they are had means of transportation of course otherwise id look like a total trout standing there with his thumb out twisting in the wind.

  So there I was, walking through the bloody woods like some sort of lost soul. I mean, I’m a publican, for crying out loud! I’m meant to be standing behind or leaning on the bar, cracking open a cold one, passing out questionable life advice to the odd punter. Or at the very least, sitting on a bar stool, surveying my beer and cigarette-stained kingdom like some pub monarch. Not tramping through the forest like a bloody nature enthusiast. It’s just not right. Not normal, I tell you!

  But, well, nothing else to do, so I kept walking. And walking. And walking. You know, in case I stumbled upon some kind of epiphany. Spoiler alert: I didn’t. All I got was more trees. I felt completely out of place, like a pint glass in a wine bar. A publican in the wilderness—what’s next, a butcher in a vegetarian café?

  Eventually, after hours of trudging through the woods like some dejected woodland creature, I saw it—a bloody dirt road. A dirt road! Hallelujah, I thought. A sign of civilisation! So, naturally, I did what any university student, hippie or youth of a questionable nature would do, I stuck my thumb out. Yes, that’s right, I was now officially hitchhiking.

  Now, you might think this is all well and good, but here’s the thing—what if no one stops? What if there’s no method of forward wheel based momentum coming at all? I’d be standing there, looking like a total muppet, thumb in the wind, no clue where I was, and no bloody idea what to do next. It’d be the world’s most awkward waiting game, and I wasn’t sure I was up for it.

  I must’ve been twisting in the wind with my thumb out for what felt like forever—though it was probably closer to an hour or more. To be honest, I was starting to get used to the whole forest vibe. Yeah, I mean, it wasn’t the hustle and bustle of the pub, but it was quiet, and the sounds weren’t all that bad. In fact, I was starting to enjoy the chirping birds and the rustling of leaves. It was a bloody nice change from the constant flatulence of my regulars and their endless moaning about whatever happened to be bugging them that day. Terry’s knee still hurts, apparently. Anyway, enough of that.

  As I stood there, wondering how long it would take before I completely lost the plot, I suddenly heard it—the unmistakable clip-clop of hooves on the dirt road. My ears pricked up, and I turned, hoping this wasn’t just some passing forest creature having a trot. But no, it wasn’t. An old horse-drawn cart was trundling down the path, the wheels creaking as they went. The cart came to a halt right next to me, and the driver—a scruffy bloke with a face like he'd seen more hard days than I’d seen pints—looked me over like I was a stray dog.

  “Need a ride there, stranger?” he asked, his voice gruff, like it had been carved out of gravel. His eyes didn’t just look at me; they scrutinised me, as though sizing up a potential threat.

  "If you can, guv, I’d be right grateful,” I said, trying to sound polite and not like a bloke who had definitely lost control of his day.

  The driver eyed me even more closely, his gaze darting from my face to my beer-drenched t-shirt, then back to my eyes. "Why you dressed like that?" he asked, a little too sharply. “You lost or somethin’? Ain't seen many blokes wanderin' ‘round lookin’ like they been dragged through a pub brawl.” He didn’t smile, not even a flicker of amusement in his eyes, just a deep suspicion that told me he wasn’t buying my story for a second. I shifted uncomfortably. "Ah, well... you see, I’m new around here. Met some fellas earlier, one thing led to another, and here I am, a bit worse for wear," I said, hoping he wouldn’t ask for the details. I wasn’t ready to explain that particular part of my day.

  He squinted at me again, his brow furrowed deeper, and his mouth tightened. "And what kind of ‘fellas’ were these, eh? Not the sort who leave a man in the woods looking like he’s been hit by a bloody truck, I hope?" He didn’t sound curious; he sounded cautious, like he’d dealt with more than his fair share of dodgy types.

  I cleared my throat and gave my best I’m-not-a-dangerous-psycho smile. “Listen, mate, I’m just looking for a bit of help. It’s been one hell of a day, I’ll tell you that,” I said, throwing in a mock salute and one of my best East End grins.

  He studied me for a long moment, his eyes still narrowed, before grunting. "You’re either a good liar or completely daft," he muttered, the suspicion still lingering in his voice. "But it ain't my job to judge." With a sigh, he waved a hand toward the cart. "Hop on, then. But don’t think I won’t keep an eye on ya."

  Relieved, I scrambled into the cart, careful not to fall flat on my face like a total mug. The horse snorted, ready to get moving.

  "Cheers, mate. You don’t know how much this means," I said, trying to keep the mood light.

  He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he clicked his tongue and cracked the reins, urging the horse forward. As we started to roll along, I looked back at the path behind me, wondering if I’d made a colossal mistake. But hey, at least I wasn’t standing in the bloody woods anymore, looking like an idiot.