Hello youngin. Fancy yourself something to drink? No? Very well. Couldn’t change your mind if I insisted? Huh. Pity. I’ve been told I have the best stuff in town, but I can’t really tell.

You’re not from here, are you? No, don’t answer me, I can tell. You smell foreign, not literally of course. I just can tell by the way you sit on that stool, how you placed your hands on the bar here. Your entire figure just stinks of out of town.

Who am I? That’s a good question. Pity I don’t have the answer. Seriously I don’t.

Confused? Ya, I was too. But then I figured out that I don’t need to remember my name.

Here, I can explain it if you want. It is simple kinda. But then again, it's not. Better just start talking huh? Ya, I think I should. Here, the best way to explain is with a story.

It begins a while ago. No, it’s not a fairy tale, it’s as real as this bottle on this shelf, as real as the liquor inside it. It was back in a little town known as Ira. You can’t find it on a map these days anymore; big old fire burnt it to the ground. But it was a lovely little town, if you know what I mean.

Plenty of girls and boys, churches, a little heaven for some people, something like that. It wasn’t a big metropolis where people would mug each other, but a small place, where if you left town everyone could look after your cat.

Anyways, in this town was a fine man. Not an old man, but certainly not a young whelp still in school. No older than you I would say. No one remembers his name, but people nicknamed him Rags, for reasons unknown. He was a good man, a rich man. But he wasn’t vain or deceitful, not like the big millionaires or politicians. No, he was some clean Rags. People say that he was such a kind man, that he would ask, before taking some money out of his bank accounts, if the bank may run out of money. He was the best in town.

But good Rags, he had a weakness. He wanted love. He was a hungry for being loved. Sure he was Christian, but he wanted love from a woman, any woman, as long as he could love her back. Some say it was a lust, but I don’t think so.

Well, one day he found himself a woman. A pretty lil gal, you know what I mean? She was kinda like him, kind at heart, lovely to look at, you know. Well, the two fell in love with each other, the usual romantic thing. But it wasn’t right.

You see, Rags loved this lady with his heart, but the lady didn’t seem to. Oh sure it appeared as much, but all of a sudden she just got up and left town, leaving a note how she didn’t want him.

Rags was heartbroken. He built a relationship, and here it turned out she lied to him. Maybe she didn’t lie to him, but Rags saw that she lied to him the entire time. He was so hurt. Everyone in town was. But no one knew what to do. Rags was such a different man altogether. A rare breed I say. One that’s not around these days, you know what I mean?

Well, Rags began to pull away from people. He just kinda began to become a hermit. That was a pity, cause whenever he was alone, he couldn’t stop thinking about his love. He would stay up many nights crying, just moaning, and no one could do anything. Rags kept saying over and over that he “wanted to forget her, to not feel the pain anymore.” No one could do a thing. Then the old man came to town.

No one saw the old man come in. He just suddenly appeared one day, as if he lived there. People back in Ira didn’t talk to the outside world much, unless you were a relative or had a reason to. But the old man, he just arrived, and said nothing to no one. Until he met Rags that is.

No one knows the exact words that were exchanged. Even I don’t know. Some people said that Rags came up to him and started talking; others say that the old man went to his house. No one is sure. Not sure if it matters. However, people are sure that the old man said people called him Well. Whatever that means.

I do know that Rags told him his troubles. Then the funny thing happened. The old man asked Rags for something valuable. The funny thing was that Rags gave Well his prized possession, his hat. His hat really made him different. I’m not sure how to describe it. It was just unique I guess.

People could recognize Rags a mile away when he wore that hat. It also was given to him by his parents. Just something that marked him. It was his Cain’s mark, only it was really nice, you know what I mean?

Well, after that, the old man vanished like that, as quickly as he arrived. Nobody has seen him in that town since. But Rags, something happened with him.

He forgot. He couldn’t remember the girl. But he couldn’t remember anything else either. He didn’t know his best friend from his worst enemy, he couldn’t figure out who was his relative and who wasn’t. He couldn’t even remember his name. And to this day, Rags still can’t remember a thing about the girl.

See, I figured Well had granted him a wish, or something. Like a wishing well, get it? So, I bet that Rags wished he wouldn’t feel pain anymore. And now he doesn’t. But he doesn’t remember who he is either, 'cause pain makes you who you are, you know? Pain makes you, well, you. With pain, he was the best man in town. Without pain, he’s nobody.

That’s why I don’t remember my name. Sure I could try, but maybe I forgot for a reason. Maybe if I remember, I will open my mind to all that pain again. I don’t want that. Ignorance is bliss; you remember that, ok?

So, would you like a drink?

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