- Yann Martel, Life of Pi (2001), Chapter 56, p. 178
He couldn't remember the name of the town, nor what problem he'd solved in the first place.
All he knew was that it was early in the morning, he was fully dressed for some reason and he had a bottle of bourbon in one hand. His head was thumping, although he'd grown used to that by now, and there was a market sale going on outside. From the window of the inn, he could see the populace engaged in the fine art of bartering - shoving, shouting and shilling, the Three S's of Commerce - and filling the air with loud, impatient voices and the clattering of goods. Even though he knew full well this was just going to join the hundreds of other market scenes he'd seen in a big blurry smear, he watched them anyway, in the detached way a dog watches lizards scurrying around.
They probably didn't even remember he was here. Typical. He'd probably put his life on the line for them again, judging from the claw marks on his torso, and they completely forgot about it over the course of a single night. Shows you exactly the kind of gratitude he got - a fleeting "thank you" party, with cake on rare occasions, a speech from a mayor, perhaps a kiss from his daughter. Thank you for saving our lives, Destined Hero, now fuck off so we can get on with our miserable lives and pretend there wasn't a horrible monster that needed killing. Nobody put up any statues or left a plaque in his name or stuff like that. He liked plaques.
Then again, the claw marks could have been from that cute girl who'd been ogling him last night. He remembered that much, at least.
He was in the middle of taking a swig from the bottle when there was a knocking sound to his right.
Puzzled, he looked towards the door, mouth full of bourbon. Then he swallowed, heaved a heavy sigh and set the bottle down on the table that stood between him and the window, when it would have been much better next to the bed. The glass, unused but taken out from force of habit, went back in the drawer to avoid aside glances and awkward questions from the visitor at his door. As he approached the door, he ran one hand through sweaty blonde locks in a futile attempt to make himself look at least presentable, just in case it was the mayor's daughter looking to throw another present his way for his earlier actions.
...Hey, maybe she left those scratches on him.
"Yes?" he asked, half mumbled, as he opened the door.
And then Mr. Silver punched him in the face.
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