"Nurse Ratched is back!" called a customer from across the room. "Someone go look for Grant, he's passed out again."
Vicious laughter called back. One customer replied, "Grant isn't here, you git. He left when you were shooting your shot with the bartender."
The laughter intensified. "Yeah, get a grip." "Maybe you've had too much, Gale.' "Get your own ride home, then," Gale sneered at the others then eyed Cieran from head to toe, "What is it, then, Ratched?"
Cieran shot a glance over his shoulder and above Gale's head. There were no obvious alternatives.
"I'm with the ambulance." Cieran flashed his jacket with an apologetic look. "How are things going tonight?"
"Just peachy, mate," said Gale, "I've had just about enough of these clowns. No respect."
"Are you going to drive?" asked Cieran when Gale prepared to leave.
Gale looked away and didn't answer. "Does it bother you if you don't have their respect?" Gale looked troubled, like the words wouldn't form. "The things they say don -". "What does it matter if you say the wrong thing!" interrupted Gale. "It's not important what they say!", spat Gale with a disturbed look.
Cieran eyed Gale. Then it was a lack of self-respect because Gale had said the wrong thing.
"I th -". "I'm taking the cab. Whatever," Gale said and brushed past Cieran. Gale left keys at the bar on the way out.
The previously vocal customers watched the interaction and muttered to themselves, but did not get involved.
Cieran stared after Gale with a perplexed look. Gale had left for a taxi and 'Grant' was long gone, so Cieran needed a new approach.
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