Bar flies with delusions of granduer

So I either just met the coolest guy ever, or the craziest bastard on the face of the earth.

I went down to the local bar to have a drink for St. Paddy’s and there’s this old guy at the counter. He’s got a full white beard and a gold chain over a Cosby sweater.

As he sips multiple rum and cokes, he makes several claims:

• He is a brain surgeon.
• He is the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.
• He is a Congressional Medar of Honor winner.
• He has Secret Service agents 24-7.
• He once commanded the Coast Guard to seize 1,600 pounds of methamphetamine.

And then some more. It gets better.

This guy is only in town because he works with an experimental medical practice that intentionally flatlines people to treat diabetes. It uses some super crystal to freeze the heart, I think. But he’s drinking at this bar, and is broke. 

He shows me his driver’s license because now I will believe him. Don’t worry he’s on our side. He recruits and trains “black American” muslims, ranging from 6-foot-8 to 8 feet tall to work as “shooters” for the U.S. military.

Once during a drug raid, or a Legislative session, he was shot in the head — 17 times. He then calmly leans forward and tells me to feel his bullet wound near his bald spot.

I politely decline.

He thanks me for being his best friend. Then he yells across the bar at three guys minding their own business.

“Hey, yeah, I need your help,” he yells, before pointing at me. “This guy needs to be protected.”

I quietly nod as he speaks, mostly because I don’t know if he’s about to pin a war medal on me or smash his empty rum-and-coke glass into my teeth. The urge to smile is painful.

Throughout the conversation he responds to answers I never give him. Constantly repeating, “You said it” after I have said nothing.

He offers the three guys at the bar 3.5 soldiers each if they will help protect me. He also controls 2,500 magistrate judges and once worked as a district attorney. But that’s when he wasn’t treating the multiple gunshot wounds for his black American soldiers, who “will take 18 shots to the skull and still kill the adversary.”

Suddenly, he turns to me and says, “I’m an asshole.”

But this Cosby sweater guy wants to help. What do I need him to do before he is killed? He thinks he can help in the courts. What’s the biggest problem in the courts?

I tell him there’s a big meth problem. “So you’re f–ked,” he says.

“When can I go to work?” he asks. “Whenever you want,” I tell him.

“Good,” he says. “I want to get some more things done before I am killed.”

Then he starts talking about how to bomb America according to the Constitution. He’ll shoot anyone who gets in the way. Sounds perfectly legal. His judges will help us.

As he walks over to the three guys to tell them he is calling in his Secret Service agents, I pay my tab, grab my coat and make a break for the door.

Holy Hell. Happy St. Patrick’s Day.