Moaning, groaning and general unhappiness made Agent Vert turn away from the glasses he was polishing. Seemed like the perpetual drunk had finally come out of his corner. He was hunched over the counter, thin hands sliding uselessly over the wood. Now that he was standing, the agent could see that what he thought was a shirt was actually some kind of nightdress or toga. The gold patterned fabric was covered in spilt drinks and vomit, and there were long tattered feathers caught in the loose folds. With the long, matted, possibly-blonde-under-the-grime-and-dirt hair, the drunk looked like a Roman god who’d gone ten rounds with a chicken.

And he’d asked for another drink.

Vert glanced at the closed office door. The bartender had gone in almost two hours ago, taking advantage of the late hour. He’d given explicit instructions to not go making any drinks (turns out bartenders can be very particular with who uses their equipment) but it would be just one… and it’s a drunk! He’s not going to ask for something overly complicated...

Mind made up, Vert turned to the drunk. “Of course, sir. What would you like?”

“Her-Hucup! Hercules’ Olympian la… laa… laaa-aaaaa…” The drunkard swayed, nodded and slipped to the floor.

“Sir? Sir, are you okaAAEEK!”

Vert jolted back as the drunk’s head popped up.

“Lager! Ol-ym-pia-an lager!”

The agent sighed and turned to the beers on tap. He hadn’t had the chance to examine it properly, but now that he could… Not that he was an alcoholic, but Vert was familiar with his alcohol, and he’d never heard of these brands before.Grimhilde Premium Brew, Ursula’s FiveX, Great Underworld Brewer & Co… Is this for real? I mean, I recognise the names, but the idea that they have their own breweries?! Really?!

“I wan’ ma drink!”

Vert jerked his attention back to the present and searched for the right label. Olympian… Olympian... ah, Olympian! He poured a perfect glass of lager and passed it to the drunk.

As soon as the glass touched his hand, the man threw it over his shoulder where it smashed across an impressionist painting of a bleeding angel.

“Oops. Sorry. Slipp’ry fingers.” The man didn’t look too sorry.

Turning around to pour a new glass, Vert swore under his breath. He shouldn’t have to deal with this! He’s an elite senior agent for PHSE, a Navy Seal! Trained in multiple fighting styles, languages, and ways of seducing women! An American James Bond! And he’s stuck serving dirty drunks in some remote corner of the US. Why the higher ups think that this is the hub of supernatural activity in the northern hemisphere, he had no clue. Obviously, Agent Dimanche had finally cracked. Other than the folklore theme, the bar was perfectly normal.

The agent set the glass down with a little more force than absolutely necessary. “Will this suffice, sir? Or would you like a straw?”

The drunk sniffed the glass once, twice, and then looked up. Vert didn’t like the glint in his eye. “Nah, I think I’m feelin’ like somethin’ a bit stronger.”

Of course he would. “What would you like, then… sir.”

“Ya know, I’ve ne’er seen you round ‘ere before. Ya new?” The man settled himself more comfortably on the stool.

“I’ve just finished my bartending course,” Vert said, diving into his cover story, “And I was looking for somewhere to get some experience. I’m planning on applying for a job in New York in six months or so, get further away from my parents.”

“Overbearin’?” The drunk asked in a voice that suggested he understood.

“Overbearingly disappointed, if that’s a thing.”

“Well, their son leavin’ tha Navy Seals to tend bars wou’d cause jus’ a couple o’ issues.” He was smiling unrepentantly, like he didn’t just make Vert’s heart leap from his chest.

“We-,” Vert coughed, tried again, “Well, I wasn’t quite making it – didn’t like the boat – but, yes, Father has been disappointed ever since.”

The man slammed a hand on the bar. “Pour me a drink then, an’ we’ll toast!”

“What would you like?”

“Le’s start easy… Death in the Afternoon?”

Vert nodded and pulled a short champagne flute from the shelf. It actually looked like a wine glass that was missing half the glass. He stopped short when reaching for the absinthe. It was bright blue. 

“Tha’ one! La Feé Bleue!” The drunk pointed madly.

The Blue Fairy indeed, Vert thought as he poured a jigger of the liquor into the glass. “I take it you have a specific champagne you’d like with it?”

“Shou’d be some o’ Melusine Chardonnay in the fridge.”

The champagne was also blue. Vert didn’t know if he should be surprised. The finished product looked almost ethereal as the liquid at the bottom became less opaque than the liquid above. “Here’s your Death in the Afternoon.” He slid it over.

And the drunk downed it like a shot.

“Ahhhh…” He sighed, blue drops leaking from the corner of his mouth, down his chin, and dripping onto the already-stained toga. “Tha’ was good.” Then a thought occurred. “Bu’ we di’n’t toast!”

“That’s okay sir…”

“No! We nee’ ta toast! Ta overbearin’ daddies!”

“Okay then sir,” Vert soothed. “Would you like another Afternoon?”

“Nup.”

Of course not.

“I wan’ a Death’s Duchess!”

“A… Death’s Duchess, sir?” Vert had never heard of that.

“I’s wine an’ pomOgranite juice.”

“Ah. A Ruby Duchess sir.”

“Nup.” The drunk shook his head decisively. “I’s got Persephone’s juice. Death’s Duchess.”

“Okay then sir…” Just let the drunk believe what he wants… The pomegranate juice was also in the fridge, and low and behold, the label on the glass bottle read Persephone’s Promegranate Juice: The taste won’t let you leave! Vert collected another champagne flute from the shelf and poured four fluid ounces of the strange blue champagne into the glass, following it up with the red juice. The resulting drink was a deep purple colour, and Vert could almost see why the drunk gave it such a name. Death’s Duchess indeed…

“Here you go sir.”

The drunk took a sip, nodded, and gulped it down like it was water. This time, however, he was sloppy, and liquid poured over his chin and down his front, looking like a dried-out bloodstain. Vert flinched.

“Good. You pass’d ma test.”

“Your test?” What was he going on about now?

“Yup. Tha’ only thin’ to toast wit’ it a Blood Moon. An’ you’re gonn’ make yourself one too.”

Vert finally gave into the urge to look at the office door. The drunk hadn’t exactly been quiet, and it’s been a while since he’d seen the bartender. Mixing a couple of really simple drinks was okay, an easy cleanup, but whatever this drunk wanted… And he wanted him to drink it?!

“Don’ worry bout the stuffy one wit’ the bri’ish accen’.” The drunk waved a hand. “I’ll smooth i’ over.”

Well, it’s been a long night… so why not? “Well then, you might have to explain exactly what a Blood Moon is.”

“Ever made a Blue Lagoon?”

Verte was getting where this was going. “Yes, they’re very popular.”

“Now, a Blood Moon has Jezibaba vodka, and Carpathian Red instead of tha’ Blue Curaqua-shiz.”

“I believe you mean Blue Curaçao, but I understand what you’re saying.”

This time, Vert pulled down two highball glasses, and filled them with ice. He couldn’t find the vodka until the drunk pointed to the back of the bar, where the wall was covered in glass-fronted shelves. The bartender had mentioned the display when Vert first arrived – apparently the man liked to save decorated bottles (or decorate the bottles himself) to put on display once empty. As it turns out, only the top shelves held empty bottles – the shelves below held the more expensive or interesting liqueur. Vert put his suspicions aside for the moment as he reached for the bottle that looked like it was being held by a chicken. The claws wrapped almost all the way around the bottle, leaving a space for a rather gruesome image of an old lady, and the words Jezibaba Vodka across the mortar she was standing in. He poured 50mL of the liqueur into the glasses and added 150mL of lemonade. At least, he thought it was lemonade. And the drunk thought it was lemonade. But why would Cinderella approve of lemonade? He shrugged. The bar was strange.

Using a glass rod, Vert stirred them swiftly. He really didn’t like using the glass rods, but the bartender had seemed insulted by the idea of using metal. The Carpathian Red that he added next was from another decorated bottle. This one looked more handmade though, with bright red paint dripping down the otherwise clear bottle, almost covering the archaic label. The name seemed familiar, as if Vert had read it somewhere else. He drizzled 25mL of the liquid over the ice/vodka/lemonade mix, and swiftly cut up the blood orange that he’d found in a storage bin in the pantry. Apparently, the strange red liqueur was made from these oranges, but the drunk didn’t know anything more than that.

As he pushed the slices over the rims, Vert absentmindedly sucked the juice off his finger. And froze. Nodded to the drunk. Walked over to the sink. And proceeded to throw up over the used glasses. The juice tasted like copper and spice, turning his stomach until he’d thrown up both dinner and lunch, and he would have continued with his stomach lining if the drunk hadn’t appeared at his elbow with a glass of water.

“Prolly shou’da warn’d ya. Ne’er eat Carpathian blood oranges straigh’.”

Vert had to pour himself more water before he could bring himself to leave the sink. “What the hell is in those oranges?!” He looked over at the finished drinks on the bar in distrust. If that’s what the orange tastes like… the drink might make him so sick he’ll turn inside out.

“Lotsa stuff… tha’ guy tha’ grows ‘em water’s ‘em wid some weird stuff.” The drunk pulled the unresisting agent around the bar and sat him down, before going back for the drinks, then the ingredients to make them. “Now, a toast!”

“No way am I drinking that!”

“Yes. You are.” The drunk pushed it into his hand, dunked a straw into the glass, and pushed it to his lips. “It tastes fine!”

And it really did.

It had a bit of a burn, but the drink was surprisingly sweet. Before he knew it, Vert had finished the whole glass.

The drunk watched him carefully. “Good, ain’ it?” At the agent’s nod, the man laughed and pushed the used glasses together. “Make us anudder one, an’ we’ll have tha’ toast!”

Once they were both holding a full glass, the drunk hoisted it high and proclaimed, “To overbearin’ daddies, an’ stupid brothers!”

“To overbearing fathers.” Vert said in solidarity, and they both gulped down their Blood Moons.

Somehow, the agent was pulled into making another, and then another. A patron with some extreme body hair walked on over with his equally hairy friend, a tall, willowy woman and her cadre of even taller willowy women followed and suddenly they’re all drinking, toasting stupid fathers and fleabitten brothers, or fleabitten fathers and brothers who were, really, just great big bags of *****. At one point, Vert found himself throwing the smaller bar knives around the room, and everyone cheering as it speared the angel painting right between the legs (except for the drunk, who crossed his legs and went pale). A short fellow with anger problems kept kicking people in the shins. The willowy women began to sway like actual willow trees. And on it went, until a door opened, and the bartender stood there in all his proper British fury.

“What is going on here?”

The room froze. Silence. If there had been a record player, it would have screeched. And then there was a mass exodus to the door, leaving behind a ruffled looking agent, a drink-covered drunk and, inexplicably, a whole heap of silver coins, gold nuggets and willow leaves.

“Now…” The bartender tapped his foot. “Did I not say that you were not allowed to touch any of the equipment behind the bar Mr Johns? You could dispense from the tap, but you were not to mix any drinks unless I was here to supervise.”

“Weeelllll…” Vert slurred. “Ma frein’ ‘ere want’d a drink…”

“Yes, speaking of Gabe.” The ire was now turned on the stupid looking drunk. “Guess who I just finished a call with?”

Horror filled the man’s eyes, and he immediately sobered. “… Dad…?”

“Yes. Dad.” A voice came from the front door, where a man with a neatly trimmed beard and tailored suit leaned in the doorway. “Time to go Gabriel.”

The drunk – Gabriel – made a bid for freedom, leaping towards the office and the back door that lay within, but was thwarted by the quick reflexes of the bartender, who neatly caught the dirty man and deposited him next to his father. “There you go Theos. He’ll be back within the week if you don’t keep a close eye on him.”

Theos sighed. “That gives me a week to sober him up, get him clean. Lord knows,” and here, he grinned like it was an inside joke, “he might go into shock without seeing his favourite bartender on a regular basis.”

Said bartender laughed and ushered the men out the door. “Have a good night Theos. And Gabe, see you next week.”

Gabriel stared over his father’s shoulder, eyes wide and pleading, as Theos began to lay into him. “You’re a fool, you know that? A stubborn fool! A stupid, heretical, sloshed, under-educated fool! Oh wait, you can’t use that excuse can you, because I paid for you to go to CAMBRIDGE!” And on and on, until they were out of earshot.

“Now, what to do with you…” The bartender turned to the agent, who began to feel quite sick.

“Ummmm… bed?” He asked hopefully.

“No. Can you explain why there are knives in the paintings? My knives?”

“Uh….” Verte was sweating now. “The-the guys wanted to see-see me… throw? I-I couldn’t use my gun, because Lundi gets really upset if I use my guns indoors, but I get around that by using them in the training rooms, and I don’t knowwhyI’mtellingyouthisbutMYHEADHURTSANDITSREALLYREALLY--”

Beloved coolness.

The bartender put down the bucket and stared at the now sopping wet agent. “Feeling better?”

Vert nodded.

“Good. Because you are going to leave. Your belongings will be sent to the address you gave me when you began your employment here, and you are not going to come near my bar again. Understood?”

Vert’s mouth dropped open. “But-but-but-” He couldn’t be thrown out! He had a job, a mission! And even if it was a stupid mission, he couldn’t have it end like this! He’d be the laughing stock of PHSE!

“But nothing. Should you get another job as a bartender, perhaps refrain from drinking half a bottle of their most expensive liqueur.”

“But… Gabe….”

An eyebrow rose. “Gabriel? He’s the bar drunk. He’s been here for so long that he’s practically part of the décor.” The eyes rose to look at the emasculate angel painting. “This is the first time he’s left in eleven months.” And the eyes were back on him. “I’d expect this kind of behaviour out of him, not an ex-Navy Seal.”

And with that, he was pushed out of the bar, door slammed in his face. Agent Vert was stunned.

“You have three hours to get off my property or I sic my dog on you. I am counting.”

Vert ran.

Inside, the bartender turned to the mess that was his bar. “Of course this has to happen tonight of all nights…” He sighed. Then he saw the empty bottle of lemonade. “And they drank all of my cleaning fluid!”