Written for the Caesar's Palace "Life is Just One Huge Song" Challenge (Reckless Partying - Pop prompt) and uses the song "Tubthumping" as its inspiration youtube dot com/watch?v=2H5uWRjFsGc

"Give me a whiskey, mate," Cassidy said in his bright Irish brogue. The barman gave him a long, jaundice look and pulled the well whiskey from under the bar. He splashed the dry glass with enough for a shot and left it where it sat.

Jesse's words swam around his brain like the angry hornets in the church's attic. 'Try not to get into any trouble,' the preacher had warned him when Cassidy had announced his intentions to go down into town for a drink or two. He hadn't pushed, hadn't made it a direct command, but still it rankled him that Jesse hadn't trusted him

"Cash only, no tabs," the bartender warned.

"I've got cash, mate; I amn't wantin' trouble," he said with a sparkle in his eye. He dropped five one dollar bills – the money he'd stolen from the poor box on the altar – on the bar and only then did the bartender push the glass over to Cassidy.

"As long as we understand each other," the man said, eyeing Cassidy sideways.

"So, mate, what's your story?" Cassidy asked the man next to him at the bar, as he liberated the man's wallet from his back pocket and relocated it in his own.

"Story? What the fuck you want?"

"I'm just makin' polite conversation. Texans like sports, right? Which football (he gagged a little over the term) team do ye thinks got the best chances of reachin' the finals this year?"

He didn't want – per se – trouble, but that didn't mean that Cassidy hadn't found it. As he flew across the bar, the imprint of the man's fist still visible on his swollen face, he wondered if he even believed his own lies anymore.

"Get up, you limey bastard," said the swaying, drunk man who he'd insulted two punches ago. "Say somethin' about my girl again, I dare ya."

"I'm Irish, mate. What were ye thinking? Get the insults right or don'tcha be bringin' them to the fight. You're only makin' yourself look stupid in front of your horse-faced girl." Cassidy said. He got a foot up under him and pushed up to one knee.

"You stupid son of a bitch," the man said.

"See, at least that's a better insult. My dearly departed mum was no saint."

"Kick his ass," someone shouted.

"I'll be glad ta," Cassidy said with a smirk, licking his hand to collect the blood on his knuckles. The cut above his eye instantly regenerated. He savored the taste of the iron-rich liquid, but the thrilled faded quickly as his stomach growled, begging for more.

The crowd in the dive bar chuckled with nervous laughter, overpowering for a moment the music playing on the old jukebox.

"I get knocked down, then I get back up again," Cassidy said along with the music, pulling his healing bones back together to stand on wobbling legs. He cracked his neck and then the fingers of his right hand – his punching hand. A slow smirk spread across his face, "You are never gonna keep me down."

As the next swing came in from his right, Cassidy side-stepped, using the man's momentum to allow the drunk to stumble passed him. He spun and put a boot in the small of the man's back, sending him sprawling into a table. He laid still, whimpering.

"There's nothin' like pissing the night away," Cassidy quoted, laughing. "Give me a vodka next." He threw a stolen five on the bar. The barman poured a shot of clear liquid poison, something he wouldn't have given to his worst customer, and pushed it across the bar.

"Cheers," Cassidy said, slamming the shot down without tasting it. "Argh, that burns all the way down!"

He turned into the next punch, took it on the chin, and danced back out of range. He kicked out again, connecting with the guy's gut, and knocking him back hard. The drunk stumbled into the jukebox and the song skipped for a second, then started over again.

"I'll have a lager now," he told the barman, ponying up another stolen five dollar bill.

"You need to puke, you do it outside," the barman said, pulling a long neck Miller Genuine Draft from behind the bar. He popped it and slid it along to Cassidy.

"I wouldn'ta dream of it, my good sir. I hold me drink like an Irishman should."

"Your funeral," he said, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Johnny, get up off the floor," the barman turned his attention to the other part of their squabble.

"He's insulted my girl, Bucky. He can't get away with that shit. Not here, not now," he said, crunching through the broken peanut shells on the floor as he lurched toward Cassidy again.

"You're just embarrassing yourself. Everybody knows that Arlene is an ugly girl, Johnny. He's just saying what everyone's thinking."

"Fuck off, Bucky. Just fuck off."

Cassidy took a long, slow sip off the Miller. "Gah, this American beer is like piss. How do ye drink this swill?"

"Don't see you putting down the bottle and buying something better?" Bucky said, still watching both men at the same time.

"Christ, no, if I start drinkin, I'm gonna finish it. That's just a stupid waste of money," Cassidy explained. "But that doesn't mean I'm gonna end here. You got any Cider back there?"

"Cider? What are you?" Bucky demanded. "Some sort of pussy? We don't serve that fruity shit here."

"It's from the song, arsehole," Cassidy said, sighing as he waved back at the jukebox. "How am I supposed ta finish the song off right if I can't have a cider?"

"The best I have is Bud Light Lime."

"I guess that'll have ta do," Cassidy lamented, pulling out the last five from Johnny's stolen wallet.

"I'll buy a beer for any guy who helps me pound this asshole into the ground," Johnny offered, his voice slurred. No one stood.

"What?!" Johnny screamed into the crowd as the Danny Boy interlude crackled from the old speakers. "You chickens too lazy to get your hands bloodied?"

"Everyone in here knows," Bucky answered him, "that you're flat broke and that Arlene's paying for your liquor. She may be ugly, but she's a good woman and she doesn't deserve to pay for your stupidity."

There was a general murmur in the crowd. Cassidy drained the second beer as the song came to an end. Disgusted, he picked up his jacket and headed to the door. He needed more than alcohol tonight; to heal his wounds he needed to drink deep and long. He needed to kill someone tonight and that stupid song had had the perfect rhythm and cadence to break bones.

He sighed, checked his watch – only 11:30 – and trudged down the street to the next bar. It had to have better alcohol and it did have a very different clientele if the confederate flag waving at the curb had anything to say about it.

As he went through the open door into the bar, the smell of blood hit his nose, calling to him like alcohol to a drunk. His face lit up in a huge smile as he saw the drinks on tap. "I'll take a whiskey, neat," he said.

"You want to open a tab?" the barman asked. He pulled down a bottle of Jameson.

"Yes, indeed," he said, pulling out Johnny's wallet. Inside the front flap was a blank ADP payroll card. "Will this do?"

The bartender looked the card over and nodded.

"I think I'll like it here," Cassidy said, smiling. "Do ye have a jukebox?"