Look at what the cat has dragged in!
Bellowed the Bear-Man as I entered his beer shop.
I looked around me in broken confusion before realising he was talking about me.
What the fuck happened to you? You look a right nick.
His gigantic belly wobbled with mirth at the idea of me being in great pain and distress.
Was out last night, drinking.
I said feebly whilst wishing there was something to hold on to in his shop that wasn't the Bear-Man himself.
On the beers? Aren't you workin' today?
He inquired, peering closely at my bloodshot eyes which nestled like two angry birds in the pale nest of my face.
Yes, I am working today and it is fucking murder.
I muttered grumpily as my head pounded to a beat that painkillers couldn't touch.
I had indeed been out on the sauce last night. I and my good friend 
I wasn't fine.
Still, it had been a good night, the parts that I could remember at least. I wasn't feeling much in the mood for beer shopping though.
However. As the famous philosopher, Parmenides was fond of saying.
Beers don't buy themselves.
And so, despite my hangover, I was here, to buy my Saturday review beers. Maybe I would go for something light this week. Something summery and playful perhaps?
The Bear-Man slapped a giant can down onto his counter.
This will sort you out. Thousands of Elvis.
At the very mention of the once and future King, I felt my upper lip curl and my hips do a little shimmy.
Thousands of Elvis. Ha, that sounds magic. Is it nice and light and refreshing?
Gingerly, I picked up the can.
Nah, is it fuck. It's a big bloody stout that will put hairs on yer chest.
The Bear-Man chuckled, no doubt at the thought of little hairless men rubbing his feet.
Actually, it's not thousands of Elvis. It's thousands of evils.
I said, examining the can.
Whatever, you wanting it?
The Bear-Man waggled it alluringly at me.
I didn't really want it. I didn't want any beer. The very idea of beer was giving me the boak.
Aye go on. I'll take it.