Herbert had just celebrated another birthday, alone, at a bar. He freely dispensed shouted wisdom to all within ear-shot. “Let us have a moment of science!” he declared. “It is a scientific fact,” he slurred, “that scientists that have more birthdays live longer!” He slammed the shot glass down loudly. This was his eleventh shot.
The other patrons looked on at the scientist with bloodshot eyes and a thick unkempt mustache.
“Furthermore,” he continued belligerently, meeting the gazes of the annoyed and bemused drunkards. “Each and every one of you are part of a science experiment right now. Will you survive the new variant or not? This all depends upon your level of intelligence. How many, i must ask, how many of you drunks are also flat earthers?”
They all laughed hysterically. “Oh, shit!” Sheer panic shot through Herbert’s mind. Why were they laughing? “i assure you, this is a serious matter. There are flat earthers all around the world!” This elicited further laughter. Outraged, he drew his pistol and then holstered it. He didn’t make it this far only to lose his cool over a bunch of disrespectful young punks.
“There’s gonna be some fuckin’ bloodshed here.” Anger returned and the gun was raised again. The laughter turned to screams.
“Sir? Sir!” the bartender snapped his fingers. Herbert was slumped over his drink at the bar. Nobody was laughing at him. Nobody seemed to notice he was even alive. “Can i call you a cab?” Herbert put a twenty on the counter and stumbled out the door.