Routine 1

3am Crown and Anchor, been up a couple days already, moving on ray beams, plenty of storage, fiends in pale yellow white bathroom stalls occupying their focus with piles of white powder. The room feels enclosed as sports news network repeats itself in one long chain with a built in automatic loop, a single hour segment the production crew shoots once then plays over and over until something else newsworthy or character damaging develops. The beers are five bucks a pop, rent in order to occupy a barstool even at this supposed slow hour, yet the dart board area is packed with late night shift workers who have yet to feel the creeping presence of exhaustion inducing the eventual onset of the physical characteristic simulating surface sensory sleep. Insomnia rules the land during world cup soccer play, not much different than the regular soccer season where the early game starts at 430am, so going to bed to get a few hours rest becomes pointless, not even enough time to shake off the binge drinking from the previous night, actually techincally still the same evening considering I have not gone to sleep yet.

Been pulling off this type of behavior way too often, but my friends are all too interested in watching the games as well or maybe just want late night company beside the usual companion of Columbian nose candy, these guys have no desire to go home, just biding time until the soccer crowd makes it way back into the bar, England is playing today so things are already beginning to constitute the basic disruptive activity that can result in a full scale anarchistic riot. A group of ten English blokes wander in to christen the early morning booze fest by filling one half of the bar with about sixty full pints of beer to be siphoned down with the upmost minimal effort, a tactical mission to be repeated at least ten more times before kick off, which is not for another 3 hrs. An asylum mentality has already moved in like a catagory 5 hurricane in search of a shore to crash upon. Faces are becoming more distorted, angry, disturbed, in search of any opposition to devour with verbal assualts, physical violence, and the possibility of brutal, mortal, vivisection.

The skylights from the roof have removed the veil of darkness that previous cloaked the grimest of harsh realities circling the already packed standing room only space growing more congested by the minute, intensifying the angst of this bitter filled, continously dissapointed English national soccer team fanbase, one of the most highly paid squads who have for some reason brought their differences to the table unable to find any sort of compatability on any level causing only more disdain and masochistic abuse. Pretty much have wasted this day already, not even six am, be lucky to sleep the rest of the afternoon, the fringes are making their way into the Crown and Anchor to run up their annual party flag like those Captain Morgan rum commericals, well rested, on the bench, somehow left off their leash by their women to relive the yesteryears of single bacholarhood with breakfast beer drinking. Shit I've been in this bar for nearly two days, just climb over the wall onto one of the benches then pass out for a few hours, I am well known here, my performance has always been well recieved, no matter, at this point it is time to dig in for another 8 hr run of soccer matches throughout the day, two pints please, I must be ready.