Excerpt: The Other Victorians: a New York fairy tale

“And stay out!” the beefy, walrus mustached Irish expatriate roared as he tossed the ragged, skinny man out into the muddy streets of New York City. There were shouts of agreement and cheers at the barkeepers words and actions from inside the bar.
The man in the mud shook his fist angrily but ineffectively at the owner of the Lucky Star Bar. “Well, serve drinks while you can!” he yelled hoarsely. “Drink while you can! There will be a twice seven year drought and this whole city will be denied even the most piss poor of brews. Fruit of the vine, water of the grain, all taken away by the police, you hairy mick!” The man in the mud would have liked to have yelled much stronger curses at the barkeeper, but since insults about the Irishman’s parentage, sexual practices, hygiene and marital status would all have been untrue, he could not speak them. He had to work with what he had, which was, “Your own grandson, a policeman under orders from the city, will personally chop up dozen of barrels of beer and dump them out into these very streets!”
“Whatever you say, oh soothsayer,” chuckled the barkeeper nastily. He called over his shoulder to the other patrons in the dusty dark saloon. “Here that my lads? I’m going to be a grandfather before I’m a father! And he’ll be a copper! And, not only that, True Thomas here says that the good city of New York is going to ban booze!” There was a chorus of nasty laughter and assorted boos from inside, several voices adding to the barkeeper’s damnation for Thomas to stay away. The drink pourer turned back in, the saloon door flapping several times before staying closed for good while Thomas slowly picked himself out of the mud.
He had just wanted to get drunk – was that too much to ask? Sobriety brought too many horrors.