The Last Sip

The night was a scar on the face of the city, deep and sordid, with the wind blowing scents of decay and nothingness. In this open-air sewer, Jean and Pierre lived, two emanations of misery, two ghosts covered in rags, eternally stained by filth. Tramps, vagabonds, ragpickers, whatever you want to call them, they were the forgotten spectres of the city, dehumanized entities in the merciless urban reality.

Jean, the oldest, was a puny giant, twisted by hunger and the harshness of the streets, with a look that bore the stigmata of a life of decay. Pierre, the youngest, had a face as round as a full moon beneath a shaggy beard and dead eyes, sporadically brightening when a bottle of booze brightened his evening.

They had learned to survive together, sharing the meager warmth of their campfire and the scraps of bread found in the garbage. Their existences were intertwined shreds of humanity, tattered lives that had found some semblance of comfort in their desperate camaraderie.

One day, or perhaps it was night, in this life without sun or moon, Jean found a beer can. Not one of those crushed, empty cans that littered the streets, but a real one, a full one, one that still had the cold of the grocery store cellar on its metal surface. It was a real treasure, a liquid diamond. Jean decided to hide it, to save it for a special occasion. A birthday perhaps, or the day when misery would be too much to bear. Little did they know that this harmless gesture would soon destroy their fragile relationship.

But this friendship, this alliance of the destitute, this solidarity of the shadows, was held together by cobwebbed threads. The world of the street is a field of ruins, where every piece of bread is a godsend and every sip of alcohol a divine nectar. The rules of good society don't exist. People fight over crumbs, slit each other's throats for a blanket with fewer holes in it. So a can of beer, intact and full, was an unimaginable treasure, a bone of contention in this microcosm of misery.

And Pierre, the young, carefree one, his soul still searching for warmth, consumed by hunger, envy and thirst, began to ogle this golden Grail. He gazed at it with shining eyes, saliva on his lips, each night a little more obsessed. And every night, his sleep was more restless, his dreams more haunted by the image of that can.

And one day, or perhaps it was one night, Pierre, driven by this uncontrollable impulse, committed the unthinkable. Jean was asleep, his emaciated body stretched out on the cold asphalt. Pierre rose silently and approached cautiously. The stars seemed to hold their breath, the world suspended in that second of eternity.

And Pierre took the can. Jean's can. He took this piece of paradise stolen from the hell of their daily lives, he stole his only friend's only treasure. A gesture of betrayal in this lawless world. A gesture that would soon draw blood on the filthy pavement of the big city.

Dawn was a bad wound, a scratch in the darkness of the dying night. Jean awoke with the hangover of those who haven't had a drink, thirst clawing at his insides like a hungry rat. He reached for his treasure, his Grail, his liquid dream. And his hand met only emptiness, nothingness, absence.

His eyes opened wide, scanning the surroundings with the ferocity of a wounded beast. Jean's gaze fell on Pierre, asleep, his face peaceful beneath his shaggy beard. And in his sleep, Pierre held the beer can tightly, like a child holding a precious toy.

In the gray half-light, Pierre's sleep faded like morning mist under the first rays of the sun. He emerged groggily, the acrid smell of the alley embracing him like an old lover. His eyes half-opened, still shackled by sleep, to discover Jean, his comrade, his friend, his street brother, staring at him with savage rage.

Reality slammed into Pierre like a punch, like a bucket of ice water. The can. The bloody can of beer he'd taken the day before. He'd done it. In a moment of unbridled selfishness, of human weakness, he'd stolen his friend.

Jean stood there, his eyes hollow with anger and disappointment. There was something in his gaze fiercer than contempt, something deeper than betrayal. It was the look of a man who had been robbed of his last hope, who had seen his last glimmer of joy mercilessly extinguished.

Pierre's heart beat like a mad drum in his chest. His hands trembled as he clutched the can even tighter, as if it were the only anchor he had in this chaotic world.

"Why, Pierre?" shouted Jean, his hoarse voice echoing in the empty alley. He didn't ask the question as if seeking an answer, but as if belching out his pain, spitting out his dismay.

Why indeed? Pierre would have liked to answer, to find words, excuses. But he remained mute, his eyes downcast, like a thief caught red-handed. The reality of his act hit him hard, leaving him with a bitter feeling of guilt.

Jean's gaze was a bottomless abyss of hatred and rage, and Pierre drowned helplessly in it, caught up in the whirlwind of this friendship turned war. Jean pounced on Pierre like a savage beast, the frightening truth of betrayal turning his despair into fury.

Fists flew, teeth clenched, tears of anger mingling with the sweat of exertion. The blows fell like rain on a tin roof, a cacophony of pain and rage. The beer can, the source of their conflict, rolled across the floor like a mute witness to their tragedy.

Jean's blows were brutal, as if he sought to strike not Pierre, but the pain that was devouring him from within. Pierre struggled, but each blow was a punishment, a retribution for his betrayal.

The fight was fierce, savage, a grotesque ballet of violence and pain. And suddenly, a blow too hard, a miscalculated movement, and Pierre fell, his head hitting the ground with a thud.

There was silence, as if time itself were holding its breath. Pierre lay motionless, his eyes open but empty. John, panting, stood over him, his bloodied fists trembling with fatigue and shock. Reality came back to him like a slap in the face. He had killed Pierre. His friend. His street brother.

For a can of beer.

The alley was now an absurd stage, a tragi-comedy with no spectators. Jean, panting, crouched beside Pierre's lifeless body, a ghost lost in this concrete purgatory. His trembling hands searched for the can, that cursed Grail, the cause of all this chaos. He found it, cold, almost alive beneath his fingers.

He raised it to the gray sky like an offering to forgotten gods, then brought it to his lips parched with thirst and horror. The beer flowed through him like a river of fire, an explosion of bubbles and bitterness in his throat. Each sip was a celebration of victory, a macabre dance of triumph and guilt.

He laughed, laughed like a madman, each burst of laughter slicing through the heavy air of the alley. His laughter was a grotesque cry of joy, a lament of relief and despair. He drank, he drank like a condemned man on the eve of his execution, like a man who had sold his soul for a moment's pleasure.

Each sip was an absolution, a baptism into bitterness and alcohol. John drank and laughed, laughed and drank, while the world around him seemed to collapse. The beer flowed through him, filling him with a fleeting warmth that made him forget, if only for a moment, the cold reality of his solitude.

And when he finished, he threw the empty can beside Pierre's body, a final act of defiance, a last cry of victory. He had his beer. He had his victory. But at what price? He looked at Pierre, his victim, his friend, his street brother, and realized that victory tasted bitter, just like the beer he'd just drunk.

But it didn't matter. Jean was king. King of the alley. King of nothing. King of an empty beer can.