Come into my parlor

ILLUSTRATED BY ORBAN
Sober or drunk, Johnny was seeing things. Like spider webs in the night sky. But as a newspaper reporter, Bennet had the job of keeping facts and fancies separate. He was good at that—too good!
I found Johnny a few blocks from our hotel in a little bar that was nearly deserted. He was sitting alone at a table in a dark corner, staring morosely at nothing in particular, his hand limp around an almost-empty glass. He seemed perfectly sober, though his eyes stared glassily ahead.
I sat down beside him. What do you say we go back to the hotel, Johnny? Tomorrow's another slave day.
His eyes shifted to me and then back to nothing. I wondered if he had actually seen me.
We can talk about it over some coffee and a bit to eat.
I suggested, placing my hand on his arm.
Go to hell, he said quietly and shook me loose. He lifted his glass, drained the last few drops. He held the empty glass to the light, then set it down, regretfully. But first buy me a drink.
You'd better go home, I said. You've had enough.
He laughed harshly. Look who's giving me orders. I know things about this cock-eyed old world you never had nightmares about, and you're ordering me around! Bossy newspapermen! Go to hell, then; I'll get my own drink.
He rose unsteadily and managed his way to the bar. He came back with the glass full.
You still here. I thought I told you—