Don't believe in every legend [Open]

Where else could you find an angry middle-aged man than in a bar? At least, that's where one could usually find this one. Joel Jeremiah Icterine sat at the bar of Creak's Tavern with his usual amount of mugs being stacked to the ceiling and putting every "veteran" drinker to shame.  He grumbled a bit every now and then, not really knowing why he still drank the swill that passed for whiskey in cheap, nickle-over-dime places like this. It tasted awful, there wasn't any real effect on him anymore, and he racked up a tab that was probably higher than most business loans. Maybe it was a nostalgia-trip that he was drunk on, a means of remembering the faults of his past. Occasionally a happier memory would float by, but those were fewer and farther between than he would care to admit right now. He pushed another glass to the mountain and was soon motioning for another one.

 He kicked his boots up onto a stool next to him. More as a preventative measure of interaction than anything else. Nobody ever liked to talk to him when he wasn't drinking out, but the second that the devil water hit the glass, people saw him as a beacon of conversation. He hoped that by this point the people that shared the evening with him have learned to back off and leave him be, but others that come in later may not afford him a luxury so rare as peace. He simply sighed and chugged down some of his drink in one quick gulp.