Bartendered
There was a clamor as patrons shouted over each other, all offering credits to get their hands on the planet's most famous beverage. Mack singled out a likely buyer, one offering fifty times what the drink was worth and then slid the short glass down the slick bar toward him, quickly checking the credit chip given in return. The wealthy man smiled and began sipping on the drink once Mack acknowledged the credits with a curt nod – slamming back a Western was a bad idea, or so went the local wisdom.
No one on-planet knew exactly what was in the drink, something that made Mack quite proud. When he'd opened The Shipping Post four years ago, it had quickly become apparent that the citizens and travelers coming trough Yaler V weren't interested in trying just another bar and spending their credits on the same watered-down sludge he had been exposed to since landing planet-side. It was the conversation of two old men on a particularly slow night that had sparked Mack's interest in creating a signature drink – both of the men could recall not only the name of the drinks they loved but exactly where the beverages had come from and the name of the bar. He'd asked, and both told him that the last time they'd been able to partake in their favorite drinks had been at least twenty years.
The idea for the Western was born.
Of course, creating a drink that would stick in the minds of patrons for the right reasons was more difficult. Mack had spent his entire adult life serving liquor and letting customers talk his ear off, but he'd never designed something from scratch. The first ten drinks he'd made were awful, at turns to sweet, too weak, and so powerful that test-drinkers had trouble seeing straight for a few days. It was the discovery of Xantham, a high-powered plant-based whiskey from one of the outer colonies that finally gave him what he needed to make his drink a winner. The stuff was powerful but didn't taste like it, and when mixed with other local varieties of liquor and juice was almost undetectable. Mack made sure every shipment of it he received was mislabeled to lower the chance of anyone figuring out exactly what he was using to make his magic highball.
Mack smiled as the bar's social hum stepped up another notch. He'd been running at near or over capacity for the last year, and the authorities were willing to look the other way because it was good for business and because Mack didn't tolerate any nonsense in his establishment. Unruly customers made for a bad atmosphere, so he employed security toughs that knew their jobs and weren't afraid to throw their weight around. Everyone who stopped by The Shipping Post knew that if they caused trouble they'd catch hell for it, and that government Enforcers would always show up just after a beating had been administered.
His face fell as the door banged open again to admit five tall men, each dressed in black from head to toe. Moe Rattler and his gang ran most of the criminal elements in the shipping district and were the one section of clientele Mack had hoped to avoid. By keeping his place clean and well-lit he'd forced most of the under-grounders elsewhere, but Moe had become a fan of the Western and stopped by at least once a week. He also caused trouble, trouble even Mack's high-paid bouncers wouldn't wade into.
Several patrons threw themselves out of the way as they saw Moe's gang coming, and a few were forcibly moved by the gang leader's cronies. Taking a seat at the bar with his men arrayed behind him to keep onlookers away, Moe held out an empty hand. He expected a Western ready for him as soon as he reached “his” stool , and what's more refused to pay, arguing that his presence brought in more customers.
“Where's my drink, Mack?” Moe said quietly.
Mack didn't bother with a reply and instead reached under the counter for a new bottle of Xantham. He'd asked for one to be specially made with Moe in mind, with the added bonus of the bottle disintegrating once its contents were used. With a flourish, another Western came into being, every drop of the Xantham going into its creation. Moe liked his drinks tall, and Mack didn't want to disappoint.
With one smooth motion, Moe poured the entire drink down his throat and then tossed the thick highball glass onto the floor, spraying nearby customers with spinning shards.
“I hope you enjoyed that,” Mack grated, leaning forward on the bar. “It's the last one I'll serve you.” He pointed for the door. “Get out.”
Surprised widened Moe's eyes but he stood, motioning to his cronies. Mack knew it was a risk, telling the gang-leader off, but he couldn't have the man interfering any longer – something had to be done.
“I've got business elsewhere, barkeep,” Moe said with a smile, “I'll see you again soon.” He swept forward, goons knocking over tables and kicking at lamps – a tantrum was apparently in order.
“No,” Mack said softly, “you won't.”
The Xantham-producers had been more than willing to accommodate his request for a high-powered derivative of their whiskey, one that came with the warning of lethality. For a man as big as Moe, it would take at least three days for the powerful beverage to run its course, and once he succumbed no trace of what killed him would remain.
Mack took a deep breath; he had never killed a man, but no other options were left open. His interests had to be protected.
“Hey!” He bellowed. “Who wants a Western?”
With Moe gone the bar lit up again, hands filled with credits thrown high into the air, and Mack smiled.
- D
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