A perpetual holiday is a good working definition of hell -George Bernard Shaw

The pub has been pretty slow on Saturday nights lately, which is too bad because for some reason I've been scheduled for almost all of them.
Another redundant night, with only a few tables ordering sparsely. I was more so watching the band, than actually doing anything. Same old same.
There was this one gentleman, he was playing pool with some friends and stuck around after they left to watch the band. He was quiet and slowly sipped the few stretched out pints he purchased from the bartender. The older man worked his way to sitting at the bar, talking with the regulars about typical things- even bonding a little.
When i covered the bar for a few minutes he talked to me about how 'working the same old shit everyday sucks but you gotta do it' and then mumbled off into a rant, like most do. I showed an awkward, pursed smile and made myself busy with something silly.

It was almost closing time, only a few drinkers and DD's left, I had put up all of the heavy and awkward chairs. Waiting around until the customers downed that drop and i could snatch the glass out of their cupped hands.
Older man had been quiet for the past 15- 20 minutes, 'must be tired, he's been here a while'. So, I wipe off the spilt beer and put up the last of the chairs. As I drop off a dirty glass at the bar I catch the sound of falling beer, but it's not followed by a shattered glass. ' Where is that coming from?'. I look at Irish Guy ( he's a regular, young, on working visa) and the other regular staring at the old guy with a face of disgust and surprise. Then I hear it. That puking/coughing/dying noise.
Old guy has his arm on the bar, head on his arm and puking pouring out of his mouth like a broken faucet. I stare for a few seconds, thinking he's going to stop...or leave...or atleast GET UP. He doesn't. He's projectile vomiting. I run to the back yelling for the bartender 'cause I have noooo idea what to do, I'm not going near him. I go back out to the bar to see if she's there, and he's still making that horrible noise, and still barfing on the wood ledge and floor. I'm getting pretty angry now, so i run to the back yelling ' Theresa, some guy is fucking puking on the floor!'.
I come out a second time, and guess what? STILL, puking. STILL, making the dying sound. STILL, not making any effort to get up and save us the disgusting fact that we're going to have to clean it up. I'm staring at him, giving the death stare and tearing back my temple in an attempt not to ask if he's freaking kidding me.
I thought the bartender, who is middle aged, tough, and striking, was going to tell him to get the fuck out. But she was really kind, probably realizing this was extremely embaressing, and tried to get him outside and into a cab. He stopped puking, I didn't think it was possible, wiped his face and managed to walk to the end of the bar almost at the door.
She calls a cab, I finish my closing duties. And then i hear it, again. Beer falling on the floor, and that god damned sound. I was pissed now, I wanted to scream ' get the fuck out'. He was obviously coherent enough to stand and walk, why the hell wasn't he walking outside?!

I was so angry when it was all over, thank freaking god I didn't have to clean it up. Bartender barely did, it was only beer after all. But it still smelt pretty rancid.
On the drive home, when i told groggy Josh this story I must have used the word 'fuck' more than 25 times. Fuuuckk!