The Punchline

         A man walked into a bar, places an envelope on the counter, and says to the bartender “I'll give you this envelope for a beer.”  The bartender stares at him, “You expect me to give you a beer for an envelope?”.  “Yes.” replied the man.  “Your crazy!  I haven't kept this bar open for twenty years by giving beer to cheap skates!”  said the bartender excitedly.  “I think you'll find the contents of this envelope very valuable.” “If it ain't cash, I don't care what it is, so either buy a beer or get out.” and with that the bartender began to clean a glass while keeping a weary eye on the man.  The man sat there for a minute or two, and then abruptly said “What if this envelope had your future in it?” “What? Like a fortune cookie?” ask the bartender.  "I guess you could look at it that way." the man replied.  “I don't need an envelope to figure out my future.  This bar is my future, so why don't you go take your fortune telling letter and get out of my bar!”  he said loudly.  Again the man sat there for minute, and then replied  “I'll make you a deal.  I'll make one prediction, and if it doesn't come true I'll go, but if it does you owe me a beer.”  The bartender gave a little sigh, and nodded his head.  “In 10 minutes a young man is going to come in.  He's a newly wed who's car has broken down on the way to the airport.”  The bartender could see that this guy was determined to get a free beer, so he nodded in acceptance. 

         For 10 minutes, the bartender watched the clock and the man.  Sure enough, a young man walked in, and asked to use the phone.  The bartender asked why he needed it, and the man replied that he just gotten married and was on his way to the airport when he's car broke down.  The bartender pointed to a wall mounted pay phone.  As the young man made he's call, the bartender asked the man what he wanted to drink.  The man pointed to a bottle displayed in a case behind the bartender. “I'll have one of those.”  The bartender handed him a bottle, which the man preceded to gulp down.  When he was finished he pushed the envelope towards the bartender, and thanked him for the beer.  A grumble was the only reply.

         With the man gone, the bartender was free to stare at the envelope.  He wasn't to happy to have been conned out of a beer.  Finally he just tossed the envelope in the trash behind the counter, and went about cleaning the bar.  It was a slow day that day, and as time wore on the bartender began to run out of things to do.  His mind wandered back to the man who came in that morning.  It still irked him that he gave a beer to that bum.  He eyed the trash can.  The envelope was still in it.  “I wonder what my fortune is?” the bartender asked to on one in particular.  He moved towards the trash can and bent down to pluck the envelope from it.  He carefully opened the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper.  “You are going to die.” was printed in black letters at the top of the page.  “You are going to die?” the bartender asked.  “What kind of fortune is that? Of course I'm going to die.”  He was about to throw the page way, when something at the bottom of it caught his eye.  “Tonight.”  was printed in the same font as the first sentence.  Now the bartender was just a little creeped out by by that.  He could have sworn the top sentence was the only writing on the page.  Quickly, almost like he had been bitten, the bartender let go of the page, and it floated down into the trash.  Remembering a whole list of things that had to be done, the bartender busied himself around the bar.

         Time went on, and that whole list of things that had to be done, turned out to not be very long.  He found himself staring at the trash can.  Every time he thought about the paper, he gave a little shiver.  “Damn it!” he exclaimed.  “It's just a fortune.  Fortune cookies don't scare me. That's all this is; just a bad fortune cookie.”  Even with this line of reasoning, he was still unnerved.  “A shot is what I need.” he decided.  “A shot and some TV.”  He turned on the television that hung over one corner of the counter, and poured himself a drink.  The local news was on.  As he nursed his drink, he listened to the latest report.  Another businesses had been robbed that day.  Not exactly what he wanted to hear right now, so he changed the channel.  It was another local news program covering the same story.  He cycled through the channels.  All local news covering the same story.  He shook his head, muttered something about getting cable, and turned off the TV.  It became very quite in the bar.  Just his shot glass for company.  A shot glass that was empty.  The phone behind the bar rang right as he was filling he's glass.  Startled, he dropped the bottle, which promptly shattered on the floor spreading it's contents.  “Fuck!”  he shouted.  The phone continued to ring as he grabbed a towel.  In a moment of indecision he stood there, wondering if he should answer the phone or clean up the mess.  The phone decided for him.  Stepping over the mess, he grabbed the handset. “Hello!” he said gruffly.  “No, you have the wrong number.  No problem, bye.”  With towel in hand, he quickly mopped up the liquor and picked up the pieces of glass, which he dumped in the trash can.  The page was still visible.  Even through the distorted glass he could still read what it said.  A shiver went down his spine, and he pored himself another drink.

         Near closing time, some costumers came in, and sat down at a table in the back of the bar.  The bartender eyed them suspiciously.  He had not seen them before, and they looked like trouble.  He walked over to them and said  “What'd you want?” in a slightly slurred voice.  The costumers where talking rather heatedly and didn't hear him.  “What do you want?!” he repeated, louder this time.  They both turned and look at the bartender.  “Well?” he prodded.  “We'll both have a beer.” the one closest to him replied.  The bartender headed back, expertly filled two glasses, walked back over and handed them to the customers.  They went back to what ever they were discussing, and the bartender went back behind the counter.  He continued to watch them.  What ever they were discussing was starting to get out of hand.  “Hey!”  he shout from across the bar. “If you're going to fight, get out!”  Their argument ended abruptly and they stared at him.  Thinking they might refuse, he brought out the gun he kept under the counter and placed it on top, in plain view of the costumers.  They got the hint and hastily departed the bar.  He didn't bother to put the gun back, he felt safer with it out.

         He cleaned up the costumers table, they didn't pay for the beers.  He placed the glasses in the sink,  and while washing them thought about the fortune.  The more he thought about it the sillier it became.  He couldn't tell if it was the alcohol, or he was finally coming to his senses.  The fact that he started to giggle a little confirmed it was the former.  “Another shot and the big bad fortune cookie will go away.” he reasoned though a fit of giggles.  Once again, the phone range while he was pouring himself a drink.  “Damn it to hell.”  is what he was trying to say, but with his rage at another dropped bottle trying to leap out of his stomach, there wasn't much room in his throat for words.  He charged at the phone, neglecting to watch his step.  He stepped on the unbroken neck of the bottle, which shot out from under his foot.  He flew backwards, and landed hard on the floor.  The phone continued to ring, but he never got up to answer it.  In the morning, one of his regulars found the bartender, and called the ambulance.  When the EMTs arrived, they quickly discerned that he had been dead for a number of hours.  A large piece of glass had found it's way into the base of his skull, killing him instantly.