“Wrong deity,” Sterling provided almost helpfully, sliding behind the bar as though he belonged there before he paused to consider what he had just said. “Though I don’t suppose I am one.” Although in a thousand years time, with the right important-looking scrolls that carried a profound enough message… he could be. A thought that was abandoned almost as soon as he picked it up, since its entertainment factor ran out the moment he reached the end of it. Why was he behind the bar? -- The malt.
Sterling contemplated how reactions vary. “But did you get dressed and, like the creature of habit you may be and I certainly am, go straight for the coffee?” He didn’t like to be thought of as predictable but truthfully, he was, and he liked a certain degree of routine in his life. Coffee came after waking up, illegal I.V. or not. That was how the balance of his universe was maintained. “I’m a lifelong hedonist, I associate precious little with misery--” He paused. “Except Stephen King and Kathy Bates.” What? It was a good film. “The drink is to keep me from turning into Jack Nicholson.” Which was ironic, because the character referenced had been an alcoholic. He had been about to say more when the comment about how long he had been at Zenith caught up to him. Counting the days on one hand, and finally crossing to the second, he slid behind the bar. “Six days. Christ, where did that go?” Where was that malt--ah. Palming a tumbler, he sloshed the amber liquid in with a thoughtful frown. “I’ve spent far too much time staring at that sodding statue.”