Sometimes, you need to march out into battle, signing hymns of praise of the Most High.
Sometimes, you need to nurse a drink in a dimly lit dive, a good man in world gone wrong. Three slugs already in you, two from the bottle and the third a round from someone you once trusted.
The dame on stage is working the song for all she’s worth. Her pipes are the best you’ve heard in years, ever since that one cafe in Paris a million years ago when you were a different man in a different world.
You’ll listen to the rest of her set. You’ll toss a tip to the band.
Then you’ll see about settling an old debt.
