The bartender swabs the bar top one more time, surveying the clientele. "Yep," he says," this used to be the spot. They were all here: Fielding, Spaw, Art. Hell, Big Mick swam in Guiness jello in that very spot where you're standing." He smiles wistfully. "Now most nights it's just me and the beatnick spooks over in the corner. Oh, sure, they still stop in.. usually for a coffee nowadays. But all the hard-drinking patrons have headed off to other threads. You'll find em talking about Woody, or stupid questions, or who discovered Iceland...." He begins to stack the wooden chairs upside down on the tables. "Eight threads, though. Quite a mile stone." He turns the "OPEN" sign around. The glow of the neon Mudcat Tavern sign makes a pool of blue light on the old wooden floor.
"I guess it's enough to know that it will always be here, a place where the Mudcatter's soul can find kinship and sustenance, a quiet port in stormy seas." The bartender slides the brass key slowly from the ring, and slides it across the bar." Here," he says, "you lock up after you finish your drink. I'm going to walk home." Humming a tune that sounds like The Streets of Laredo , the bartender closes the door behind him and fades into the darkness of Tiple Street.