Irish Pub

He went to an Irish pub around the corner from his apartment. He’d eavesdrop. He’d copy down whatever stories or pieces of stories he could. He’d combine them, mix them up. Invariably the teller would have cast themselves as a hero or alternatively a victim. In either case, once he had something he felt nearly complete (or at least nearly long enough) he’d pull a pair of dice out of his pocket. He had worked out a certain number of things that could befall the hero/victim of the story based on a single throw of the dice. Double sixes meant a bloody demise. There were specific combinations for rape, castration, decapitation, paralysis, cancer, insanity, incarceration. Snake eyes and the protagonist won the lottery.