"I think you've had enough."
The last patron in the bar looks up from an empty glass to wreckage surrounding him. Only the wall behind the bartender is still standing. Around them the world has been sorted into heaps of differing sizes. The two men themselves reflect the carnage with their ash covered faces and shredded clothing. Above, the sky is sunny and quiet as if nothing had ever happened.
"What are you talking about? The world's over. Why should I have a limit?"
The bartender shrugs and pours his patron out another whiskey. "I don't know. Force of habit I guess."
"Say, Barney," says the drunk after downing half the glass, "do you remember that guy what used to stand outside the gas station yelling about the end of the world?"
"Yeah. What about him?"
"He's gone now. Got his end after all. Preacher's gone too. The one who ran the mission down on Havenforth. Father Mike, or Mitch, or whatever."
"I guess so," Barney responds while refilling his customer's empty glass.
"They're all gone. Everyone of them. Only ones left are you and me. Why do you suppose that is?"
"Why are they gone but we're still here?"
"I have no idea. Why do you think we're still here?"
His patron smiles wide revealing several gaps. "That's easy. You're here cause you have the second most important job in the world: serving alcohol."
Barney rolls his eyes. "And you?"
"I have the most important job in the world," he says through horse laugh. "I drink the alcohol."
The bartender shakes his head and pulls out a second glass from beneath the bar, which he fills with the same amber liquid.
"Who's that for?" asks the drunk.
"Me," Barney replies. "I've just been promoted."