I. The Yankee’s Throne

“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.” – William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar.

What came first, the person or the name? The drunken night of passion came first. Someone and another got themselves hopped up on alcohol, love, hope, lust, pity, or some other drug and then a life was conceived. Then the question of what came first returned, the person or the name? The proper noun, or the label? The chicken or the egg? There’s no difference.

The first customer of The Yankee’s Throne was like any other unsure individual who walked into a random bar on a whim or by mistake. He was lost, tired, and confused by the events that began to unfold in his life. Unlike most other individuals he was a Roman emperor.

The place was foreign to him; he was due in the senate, but instead he found what looked like a prohibition era speakeasy. He didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he did know, which confused him. The bartender, another word the Emperor never knew, was a tall green rabbit. The rabbit motioned for him to sit down on a stool at the bar.

“Where am I?” The Emperor asked.

The rabbit thought a moment. “The Yankee’s Throne? Yes that’s right. I like that name.”

The Emperor nodded, oddly comforted by the name. “Why am I here?”

The Pooka poured him a fresh beer and sat it in front of him. “For that, I believe.”

The Emperor picked up the glass and cautiously sipped at the drink, then began to chug it down. It tasted just like the wine they served when he was crowned Emperor. He thought the beverage had ceased to exist, but here it was. Granted, it didn’t look the same, but it was delicious.

“Another!” he yelled.

“Calm down your highness,” The rabbit poured him another. “Take it slow.”

The Emperor did not take it slow. Why should he? He was the Emperor; all did as he commanded. He gulped the drink down.

“Another!”

“Wouldn’t you like to know more about where you are?” The rabbit asked. “Or who I am?”

The Emperor glared at the rabbit. He wanted wine not whine, but, for this gift, he’d allow the bartender to speak. “Tell me while you’re pouring.”

“All right,” The Bartender sighed and poured him another. “Name’s Barnaby, and this place, as I said before is the Yankee’s Throne, here is where I judge—

The Emperor finished his third drink. “Another!”

“Now just wait a second—

“Pour me another drink, bunny!”

Barnaby sighed, put the Emperor’s glass in a sink, and snapped his fingers. The front door swung open and a strong wind began to pull the Emperor toward the edge of the bar.

“Stop!” The Emperor yelled, holding on to his stool so the vacuum wouldn’t suck him out. “Pour me another!”

“No,” Barnaby answered, and the Emperor lost his grip and fell into the void from whence he came. No one, not even Roman emperors, called Barnaby a bunny.

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