In this economy you’ve got to take the jobs you can get.
When I found out a couple of months ago that my new next-door neighbors weren’t just a bunch of loud, inconsiderate dirtbags, they were loud, inconsiderate dirtbags running an interdimensional speakeasy, I offered to tend bar.
Drunks are drunks, right? It can’t be worse than wrangling frat boys. And say what you want about your average alien menace from outer space, they always tip well.
I was getting my set-up ready for a hard night of drinking when Djik-lik, my manager, came bustling in. Djik-lik is a pretty good guy, all in all. I’ve certainly worked for worse.
“Jake,” he clicked, “We have a special request. General K’ll’t’rsk has come to celebrate his great victory over the Ooooooom armies this cycle. He says that tens of thousands of Ooooooom perished in a single battle.”
“He must be very proud.”
“He is. He has heard of your people’s ‘cocktails’ and insists on something very special for his celebrations.”
“Ok. What’s this General K’ll’t’rsk,” a bitch to say, but I was sure with practice I’d get it, “like to drink? We have Jello shots, but they won’t be ready for another hour.”
“He wants it strong, he wants it fast, he wants it blue to celebrate the blue sunshine of Pokrath, the world he has just subjugated.”
“How much is he willing to pay?”
“Like all T’rr’k, he’s a cheap bastard.”
So I broke out the Blue Curacao and tequila, mixed up a couple of pitchers of “Sunset Over Pokrath,” and sent it on over. Continue reading