The bar was almost deserted—an undeniable fact.
This nameless little town had very few residents to begin with. Most of the young people had long since moved away to seek opportunities elsewhere, leaving behind only a handful of elderly folks barely scraping by. Because of that, the patrons who visited the bar were mostly local regulars—people who all knew each other well.
Often, old John, the owner, was busy with other tasks. When customers arrived, they'd help themselves without hesitation. They'd grab a glass, pour their own drinks, or pick up a beer can and find a bottle opener. Afterward, they'd casually toss the payment into the money basket on the bar counter.
That was precisely why John could run the place all by himself. He didn't prohibit anyone from serving themselves. He'd grumble, sure, but never stop them.
If anyone wanted a proper meal, they'd go to the town's only restaurant. John didn't try to compete—he just focused on alcohol and a few simple bar snacks.
The old-timers in the town were set in their ways. Most of them would stop by the bar briefly in the evenings, but never in the middle of the day—unless something special was going on. They were modest in their drinking too. Usually, they'd just have a single can of beer, or something equally light.
If someone came in and started drinking excessively, and they were alone, it was safe to assume something sorrowful had happened at home.
If two or more people drank excessively, then the reason was likely the opposite: something worth celebrating.
People would inquire, discreetly, and if help was needed and possible, they'd offer it. If not, they would respectfully give the person space to deal with their emotions alone.
Everyone was getting older. They were no longer brooding teens who spiraled into suicidal thoughts when faced with hardship. They just needed time to process things and carry on.
But if there was something joyful—something that deserved celebration—then no prompting was needed. The drinkers would naturally want to share their joy with someone.
That said, there was one particular thing that completely overturned Henry's original bias—his belief that white people didn't understand the art of cursing.
That assumption turned out to be hilariously wrong.
Sure, American teenagers influenced by Black culture often responded to provocation with guns instead of words, but redneck white culture had its own unique and colorful approach to cursing. In fact, in a country where stand-up comedy thrived, to suggest that white people lacked the skill of verbal mockery was just plain delusional.
Henry had heard it many times at the bar, things like:"Look who finally decided to crawl out from under a rock. I was beginning to think I owned this damn place, you miserable bastard.""Well, I'm shocked you're even alive. I thought you were pushing up daisies by now. That's what I hoped happened, anyway. Next time you walk into my bar, try speaking like a damn human being, not muttering like a back-alley reject.""Forget it, just give me a beer.""Ten bucks.""Ten bucks? Good grief, old John, what are you now—half Jewish? You keep raising prices like you're scalping tickets!""Beer's been ten bucks for ten years. You senile Scottish fossil, maybe get your memory checked.""Keep the change. Use it for your brain scan.""I'll donate it to the church, ask the priest to reserve a plot for you in the graveyard."These kinds of barbed exchanges happened countless times a day. They'd become a sort of customary greeting among the old regulars—like verbal sparring that everyone enjoyed and no one took personally.
Back in the 1990s, though political correctness was starting to gain traction in America, it hadn't yet reached the level of censoring "traditional" white humor. So racial jokes and dark humor flew freely in places like this—raw, uncensored, and certainly not for the faint of heart.
Of course, Henry understood that if people from other cultures said these things, they might be misunderstood—or worse. This wasn't something to deny.
Even if such comments would be deemed unacceptable in public a few decades later, Henry was learning what it meant to truly assimilate into old-school small-town American life. Not just live like a white man, but speak like one too.
After all, his appearance was now fixed. What good would it do to behave and talk like a stereotypical Black street kid?
And as for living with the deferential, overly polite mannerisms of his past life—minding etiquette, humility, and social hierarchy—well, in this world, that just got you looked down on.
The old white men in this town wouldn't think of Henry as polite or cultured—they'd think of him as spineless.
The old white women were worse. They looked at this tall, muscular young man and concluded that he was all bark and no bite. A pretty boy with no edge.
Being seen as timid was one thing—after all, it aligned with Henry's lazy, inconspicuous persona. But being mistaken for a sissy? That crossed the line.
Especially if you got labeled as someone's fantasy "uke" by a closeted fangirl type. Henry wasn't having that. The term Fujoshi might not have existed in the 90s, but people with that mindset sure did.
To reiterate, though—the bar was really boring. Most of Henry's time there was spent glued to the old cathode-ray tube TV on the counter.
Old John didn't pay for cable, so they only got local news and a few stations that aired reruns of old soap operas and movies.
It was a color TV, but it mostly broadcast black-and-white content. Still, Henry was captivated.
He didn't watch those shows to improve his English or anything educational. It was purely out of boredom.
After being imprisoned in a secret Russian lab for nearly twenty years, with no form of entertainment—let alone human interaction—Henry craved something, anything, to fill the void.
In his previous life, he'd gotten used to solitude. The silence didn't bother him. But the absence of stimulation? That was unbearable.
Now that he'd finally been set free, taken in by old John, Henry knew better than to hope for luxury. Even if he wanted a glamorous life, this forgotten Alaskan town didn't have the means.
So, the worn-out TV became his only form of salvation. An "invisible otaku" clinging to relics of the past.
If only he had an endless supply of "Happy Fat Home Water"—whatever that was—it'd be perfect. But beggars couldn't be choosers. Old John already provided more than enough food, and that was kindness enough.
Henry's body devoured everything like a sponge.
In fact, his metabolism had undergone radical changes. He didn't poop. He didn't pee. Everything he ate or drank was completely absorbed by his body with 100% efficiency.
No waste. None.
And it wasn't just digestion that had changed. His entire physique was transforming—gaining muscle, strength, and bulk by the day.
He was like a balloon slowly inflating—visibly growing stronger each morning. Anyone paying attention would notice.
As for John, Henry could vaguely sense the old man's way of thinking. A kind of philosophy built on lived wisdom: You come into this world with nothing, and you leave with nothing. So if someone can use what you have, why not share it?
John wasn't worried about becoming rich in this dusty corner of Alaska. No matter how much he saved, he'd never become a millionaire.
So helping a kid in need didn't feel like a loss to him. It was natural.
It wasn't about race—Black or white didn't matter. It was about one thing: the future belonged to the young. And for a man with one foot in the grave, lending a hand wasn't charity—it was passing the torch.