Unloved.

I think the reason I set up shop in an illegal bar on the Moon was to have a purpose. You see, I have come to find that men as a species are expendable and always will be. I have seen wars come and go, various man-made disasters, and the other kind that seem like an act of God. In each of these I have seen the breach filled with human lives. Eaten up and destroyed, sometimes to return; more often than not to disappear.

I have played my part in these. I was lucky in a few cases to be thrown into the breach and come up for sweet air afterwards. Many of those who went with me did not fare as well. Others were scarred by it and they are the haunting reminder of what came to pass. I see them in my bar whether they are real or not I still pour the drink to honour them.

I have come to know a great tragedy and that is when a man is unloved. I have seen boys killed, dying in silence, pure courage in the face of final knowledge that no one will suffer heartbreak at their passing. These men are often mourned as a group, but by and large the individual is forgotten.

It is why I seek purpose in my little bar. I fulfill a need for those who seek inebriated distraction, which is an important aspect of our society. Yet, even here in my domain I see the boys who are unloved and who move through life largely unmalevolent. I see them as the ones who stand just outside the group, the lonely drinker, or the fellas paying for drinks in the small hope that later that evening he may disguise pleasure as love for a few moments at least.

It helps that I serve a purpose. It helps to have my patrons to focus on to distract me from the oppressive truth that I am indeed unloved. I will say this to the passerby who feels as I do that there is some benefit to our condition. It is that we can move through life untethered and without fear that when greatness or opportunity knocks we will need not hesitate to answer the call.

It is why so many idealistic boys go into the breach. It is why we are expendable. Because many of us are unloved and seek greatness as a substitute.

Wandering with Conviction

I have forgotten the way. It once was so clear and easy to find in my mind’s eye. Now I wander. I move forward, but without direction the destination seems to be getting further and further away.

Once, along the way, I met a young boy sitting by the path. He was dirty and unkempt, however, he smiled and it was a brilliant smile. It was such a smile that to gaze upon it for anytime would in turn cause a smile to form on your own face, or at least that is what it did to me.

I stopped and sat across from him and we smiled at each other. I asked him why he smiled.

“I have nothing but my happiness. If I stopped smiling then I would be truly poor.”

I stopped smiling and moved away from the boy then because I knew he was delusional and sick. He had also become lost along the way, but his journey had made him insane. I, on the other hand, would continue to wander, though I do not know the way. My option is far more sane. I am not a child and childish parables will not suffice to make me stop my wandering. It is no simple matter of finding a tree and hugging it to find my way.

That being said, I haven’t seen a tree in a while and when I did see them I did not stop to hug them. But, I am a wanderer with conviction. Not some sick and smiling boy.

From Across the Bar

I have seen many first moments. You work behind a bar night and day and you see a lot of them. In literature there is talk of a thunderbolt or a shared look and then it is all over. Star-crossed lovers, blam-o right then and there. But, in my humble experience it is a little different.

Firstly, someone sees the other one first. Like a game of visual tag and yet no one knows that they are playing. One of the individuals spies the other one and the game is on. I have heard tell of the ‘3-second rule,’ where you need to make up your mind in three seconds. I think that’s all moon-dust. What kind of crazy person knows what they want in three seconds?

It also defeats the importance of the next part: Courage. It takes guts to talk to someone face-to-face these days. Heck, what with the technology we have you never need to see a person ever if you really didn’t want to and some don’t. So, the old-fashioned stuff. Like, walking up to a boy you like the looks of and introducing yourself takes courage.

There is battle courage, sure. I have seen enough of that and individuals have spoken on that subject with far more eloquence than I ever could. No, this is a different type of courage. It is accepting failure, but hoping for the best possible outcome. It is steeling yourself against your enevitable demise, but allowing the winds of fancy to push you forward towards doom, destiny, or both. Courage is slugging back some cheap whisky and then making your fool-hardy move. I can say that it is rarely executed well, but sometimes there is charm in that too.

That’s the true romance of the moment and you can’t help but get close to it and listen in. Especially in my position.

“Hi.”

“I, uh, was hoping I could buy you a drink, or uhmmm if I could introduce myself. I’m K. Hi”

“Oh. Well I already have a drink and you just introduced yourself.”

“Right… and, right.”

*Silence pervading the noisey atomosphere*

*The Moon spins a little more slowly*

“Well, I introduced myself… What’s your name?”

“I’m T.”

“Hi, T what brings you here? I’ve never been here before.”

“Well, the whisky is cheap and this place never seems to get shut down. Plus, my friends dragged me here.”

“Oh, well it is sort of the same for me my friends got me to come here too. That’s them over there.”

“Yeah I can tell by the gawks.”

“Are you sure you don’t want another drink? I, uh, don’t really know anything about whisky, but I will drink what you are drinking.”

“Fine. Just ask for the rail stuff. It’s not the real stuff, but I like that.”

“Okay. It’s better if it’s not real?”

“Oh damn. That’s not easy to answer and if I got it wrong and someone overheard they might kill me.”

“Ah you look like the dangerous type. T, the whisky spy.”

“You have no idea, K.”

The occupants of the bar all blur and become static as these two drink their whisky and indulge in each other’s company. They have time. It is a speakeasy after all and closing time is some hours off. They go slow, but there are moments of extreme honesty that catapult them further along with each other.

Who knows where they will go from here. They sat together and in those moments their world was confined to a two meter cubed space. They drank and there was some laughter. They were both shy in their own way and also both courageous in allowing a stranger intimate time in their own lives.

As a seasoned barkeep I did my part: I left them alone.

Final Moments.

Hunkered behind a small crater on an unnamed moon in a corner of space relegated to witness my demise. It isn’t funny but at the same time, I have to say, it isn’t overly cruel either.

Coming from an impoverished farming planet and being whisked away on an adventure only to make a last stand in a meaningless place is more than I could have ever hoped for. Instead I could have been stuck on a plough all my life. At least this way I got to see one or two stars.

More gunfire. The telltale puffs of dust as projectiles impact the the crater and beyond it. I can hear some chatter over the radio, so maybe somewhere someone from my unit is doing better than I am. It is a small comfort as I look down at the read out of my rifle: 2.

2 projectiles. A far-cry from the 500 projectiles I started with not too long ago. I move slowly and peer quickly over the crater embankment. Movement left and a flash right. Great. They are going to come at me from two sides. I sigh and clutch the grip harder. With eyes closed I think back to 8 months ago and smile at the warmth of those memories. However, something else lingers there. Bordom.

What would I do? What would the fantasy version of myself do in this moment? I have imagined my life as a Star Soldier for as long as I have memory. A wave that emenates from my chest sends warm chills throughout my body. A sense of what the answer is and the horrific and wonderful things it means. A last stand.

Okay. Death enevitable and hilarious, how do I make this happen? Just pop up and try and get a bead on my pursuers? No. Too simple; and the holographic drill seargent I had in basic would reanimate and ream me out as I died. Hmmm. Why even use the projectiles? I mean, all the Star Soldiers are issued a bayonet. I had gutted animals before and although killing someone at sexual range is typically frowned upon there is no substitute for killing the enemy.

Alright bayonet it is. How does it even attach to my rifle? Ah, yes. Twist and click. The rifle looks even more deadly now if that was at all possible and I am surprised that I had not seen the rifle in this configuation more often. Most recruits don’t even get training in hand-to-hand so perhaps they simply saw no use to explain it.

I am a little closer to the movement on the left. “Let’s go that way first,” I murmer to no one in particular. I decide to start my blaze of glory off with a combat roll that looks more like a somersault in low-G. I come up a little further than I have intended and see the creature tracking me with its weapon. They are slow in the cold and I keep hustling left. I see a small embankment and lunge for it load my legs up and explode towards my enemy. I close the distance fast and I plunge my bayonet into what passes for a neck. Black blood boils out of the wound and the creature lets out a death shudder.

Whoa. Easier than I thought and I still have two projectiles left. I spin around facing the threat that was previosuly on my right. I see the creature firing over the crater not far from where I was hiding before. I push my vicitim in front of me and give it a hard kick. The recently deceased creature rockets towards his companion. It bumps and tumbles wildly, but obstructs me enough to soak up a number of projectiles. I roll left and level my rifle and squeeze the trigger letting loose my last two projectiles. They miss and in frustration I fling my rifle like an axe towards the creature. The rifle spins like a throwing star in low-G and my jaw drops when I see the bayonet lodge itself in the creatures chest.

Slowly I regain my composure and slowly walk to the dying creature. “How the fuck did that work?” I ask the now dead creature. I pull the bayonet out and try to ignore the sensation of flesh clinging to the blade.

I look around and notice an audience. Star Soldiers wearing the same blue on blue outfits as me. The one closest to me, a woman, stares at me mouth agape. I look at them all and shrug, “It seemed like a good idea in my head.”

The Alley Guy

Being the proprietor of a bar that is somewhat on the level I have seen a lot of aspects of this industry. I didn’t always own the bar. In fact, when I was a young scamp I worked various jobs in bars and seedy places in general. In the hierarchy of things the best position on the low rungs of a bar is to be an Alley Guy.

Let me explain:

I worked for this Moldovan fellow. He was big in the truest sense of the word. Wide and tall and imposing to say the least. In the several years I worked for him I saw him stand only a handful of times and most of those were confined to the first week I was employed by him. He was surprisingly kind in a direct sort of way. He would ask about my life and how I was doing. Once I told him of a love lost and at the end of my shift he sent me home with a 500 credit bottle of whisky.

This was all contrary to his reputation of course. When I first started working for him I was a front door frisker. What that meant was I had to pat down the patrons that made it into the private section of the bar. I must have done something the Moldovan liked because after a week he sent me out to the Alley.

The Alley is the best place to work. Firstly, when the dancers need a break they go out there to smoke. Now I am not a smoker, but I took to keeping a number of packs and a lighter in my jacket whenever I was out there. It is incredible how many times all it takes is quiet words over a cigarette.

Before I explain the best part it is important to understand the role of a man in the Alley. You see, sometimes in certain establishments, you need a place to deal with delicate situations without the prying eyes of patrons, security cams, or even the other employees. As well, an Alley holds all the accouterments that are required to deal with delicate situations. Perhaps, an individual has been caught red handed in theft that relates to the Moldovan, well that individual comes outside and sees me. I put his hands on a trash-compactor(with assistance, of course) and repeatedly bring the lid down on his hands until every bone from the forearm down has been shattered.

In another instance, a fella got brought back to the Alley and I was given the hint that, while he had done something that required punishment, he was in favour with the Moldovan and so it should have a psychological impact and less physical. So, I put my arm around him and invited him to examine some of my favourite architectural facets of the Alley. Most of these are found at the top of a fire escape ladder some 5 levels up. Once I had shown and described in detail the fascinating aspects of pre-permacrete construction I pushed him off the platform we were on. The drop is about 50 meters and depending on the day, quite fatal. Lucky for my new friend it was a Wednesday, which meant garbage had not been collected. He walked away with broken ribs and a new appreciation for architecture.

That’s what I liked about the Alley. There was always something there to help you solve your problem. However, the best part of the Alley was that you could leave.

One night, I was in the Alley and I was talking to Z over a cigarette. She was a lovely dancer from South Africa, but that’s a story for another time. As I go to light up her umpteenth cigarette there comes loud thumps from inside. Loud, like an anvil falling on the floor above you. I looked at Z and we simply nodded at one another and left.

Turns out that fella that I was trying to teach an architecture lesson to came back a year later and he shot and killed nearly everyone in the building before one of the dancers got him with a shotgun.

I always wonder if the Moldovan gave me that position because he knew it was the safest place. But, if I wonder too much about that I start to think about luck, and then the cosmic reason I was spared. Not worth thinking about. However, it allows me to pass on this information: If you can, when you sign on to work in a seedy establishment try and get the Alley job.

The Guts to Wear a Hentai T-Shirt

It takes a certain amount of backbone to wear a t-shirt depicting drawn individuals engaging in lewd behaviour. I am not saying that this backbone resides in a person with upstanding character, I am simply saying that if you walk out your door with that covering your upper body then you’ve got guts.

Why though? I suppose it is important to take into account who might see it. You know, if I saw someone walk into my bar with a shirt like that on I would note it and go back to cleaning my glasses. However, if I was out on the lunar streets and saw that same person I think it would make me a little angry. Who else might see that shirt? A child, a religious person, or someone who simply might explode at the sight of salivating hentai girls?

Perhaps then we learn something more about the shirt. It requires context and it requires setting. Out in the street anyone could happen to see it and that could lead to emotional conflation or worse scarred memories. However, you bring that same shirt into my bar and it is simply a conversation piece. Something that the other patrons would talk about or comment on in both directions of positive and negative.

So, by examining this pornographic apparel we have come to find that there is value in the shirt. It is divisive and when seen sparks something in the mind; whether it is derision or arousal, the wearer has forced us to have a feeling about the shirt and by extension the wearer. As well, naturally as this feeling is sparked the context comes into play. In the streets, the wearer would be considered as a pervert because they are inflicting pornography on any passerby. In my bar, the wearer would only be an eccentric.

However, in both settings such a t-shirt requires a certain amount of daring to wear it. The same type of daring that could be attributed to great persons of history. So, I tip my hat to those weirdos that wear cartoon pornography proudly on their chests. It sure does take guts to wear a shirt like that, kid; but the Moon Whisky still costs 5 credits.

Goddamnit.

I just have to write something once a day. That’s the rule. That’s what I signed up for. All I do each day is polish the bar tops and wipe out the glasses after they have gone through the wash cycle. But, yesterday I became intoxicated and skipped a day of writing. Alas, I am not some Benedictine monk and cannot self-flagellate physically. So, I am punishing myself by relating what happened to you.

I love baths. I have a special bathtub made just for the moon. I have baths almost thrice weekly. I sit and drink some whisky and think. Over time these baths have become more complicated with the addition of oils, scrubs, bombs, and soaps. I make sure to have the best bath products ready for when I want to just get down and enjoy a nice hot bath.

However, a unintended side effect of these bath times is intoxication. You see, I have a small mini-bar setup right beside the tub. Last night, I was performing my ablutions and the whisky just tasted better for some reason. I took more and more drinks until I found that my heart was full.

As I tried to get out of the bathtub I realized that I had become intoxicated. I’ve always had a little bit of a superstition when it comes to alcohol. If you find yourself accidentally drunk it probably has a cosmic purpose and so you should continue drinking. Indeed, I got back into the tub and poured another bath and another drink.

No real good came of it. The cosmic purpose escaped me. Instead, I lingered on thoughts of loves past and slowly chipped away at the brain cells that contain those memories.

I must apologize for my actions; and I do.

The Bar Prophet

A silly story I once heard back on Earth…

“Let’s talk it out,” he says.

I look at the man. He has dark features and the neon light from outside the bar on the cobalt street give him a sinister look that is oddly inviting.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Well, you can’t have the best of both worlds,” he takes a drag of his cigarillo. “You can’t go for the prettiest girl in the bar like you did back there and open up with a real intelligent line.”

I shuffle uncomfortably. I’m not used to straight talk.

Giving the cigarillo a practiced flick he continues, “you need to pick those ones apart, you see. She knows she’s hot, you know? I’m not saying you walk up and start acting like an asshole. You’re a smart guy you’ve got to use that to your advantage.”

I pull out a small gold flask unscrew the cap and take a swig of rye that brings a satisfactory burn. I was already drunk. I didn’t really need it, but the action made me feel good in the boyish way indulgence usually does. The bar prophet gave me a slight nod and I offered him the flask. He shook his head. I return the flask to my back pocket. “So, I can’t be an asshole and I’ve got to be smart, but I can’t come off as intelligent; what’s my play here, man?”

“You can be intelligent; it’s just how you do it. You can be an asshole, but you have to be the right kind of asshole.” He turns his head and looks in through the window of the bar. She’s in there. The girl we are talking about smiling and leaning against the bar her right hand propped up with a wine glass held close to her lips. She’s wearing a tight black singlet with an open back that tucks into even tighter jeans. Her blonde hair is platinum and through the window seems to create a halo. She’s the angel of the night and I wasted a first impression with her fifteen minutes earlier.

I had left the bar to get some air and in the hopes that she might follow me out for whatever reason. Instead, I had run into the sinister man lighting up his flagrant cigarillo. I wasn’t a smoker, but in the moment, I really felt like I needed one. I pictured her looking through the window seeing me smoking a cigarette and maybe she would reconsider what type of person I was.

“You’re staring.”

I was. Ripping my attention away I looked up the street at others who were standing outside bars. This street had several. A sports bar, a tavern, a pub, and the one my friends and I had decided to hit. It’s a ‘lounge’. Which in this case just means that there are no TV’s on the wall and the beer is local and expensive. My friends were in a corner huddled around a pitcher. Grumbling about the prices and checking their phones for updates on the game. I had suggested we go here and meet ‘a different breed of woman’ than we were used to. Most of us are university graduates and still living with our parents.

The Bar Prophet followed my gaze and took deep pulls. “So, what makes you an authority? What are your credentials?” I meant it in jest, but it came off a little too sharp.

He shrugged. His demeanour was passive, but there was an underlying dangerousness to this man. He had the air of a man who could say what he wanted because he was prepared at all times to deal with the consequences. From the moment we interacted I felt that respect was a better plan than standoffishness. I tried to pull myself out of my drunkenness to better engage.

“So far, you’ve been pretty spot on, man. I didn’t even see you in there and you’ve summed up my encounter, so what next?” I pull the flask out and take a smaller sip. This time the bar prophet takes some as well. A good sign.

He clears his throat. I smile knowing he wasn’t expecting the rye. “You have to take the love away.”

I look at him quizzically.

“You are already in love with this girl, right? Hundreds of men have been in love with her at scores of other bars. She’s used to men falling in love with her.” He drops his cigarillo and steps on it; the plastic mouth piece snapping.

“Okay, do you want me to ignore her, or treat her like shit, or what?”

“I mean that’s one way, but I don’t really think that’s the right way for you. I’d do it that way; that’s usually the way I do it I mean.” He crosses his arms and leans back against the ‘lounge’.

I paused and replayed his words in my head trying to find the hidden meaning. Take the love away. How could you take away the love when this girl is an Angel. If I get rebuffed what about the next time? I shake my head and chuckle. What next time?

“What?”

“Just thinking about what you said and I think it is impossible to take the love away with a girl like that. She knows how she needs to be treated. She won’t settle for anything less.”

“No that’s the thing. Jesus Christ! You’re a smart kid. I heard your conversation with her. It was funny, but that is exactly what she was expecting. You need to take the love away.” He turned again to look at her. For a brief moment, I could see her look our way. A glimmer of sweet sickly hope in my stomach. She is keeping track of where I am I think to myself.

The Bar Prophet turns back to me, “it was a good move you coming out here for a break. That’s your smarts coming through for you again.”

I blush. It feels too good receiving a compliment from him. I harden myself and respond truthfully, “I was hoping she would follow me out, like, maybe I made an impression on her somehow.”

“Okay, so, maybe not a consciously smart move then.”

“Hey, do you have a cigarette by any chance?”

“Sure,” he pulls out a pack and tosses a cigarette at me and lights his own then mine.

I take a drag. I’m not used to smoking and I can feel the tickle in my throat. I give a little cough, but do an okay job of holding back a hacking fit. It his turn to smile at me.

“Take the love away,” he murmurs.

“You still haven’t been clear on how I do that.”

He pulls deeply on his cigarette and examines me. I feel small under his gaze and do my best not to fidget. I’m taller and look stronger than the Bar Prophet, but that underlying dangerousness lingers. His examination finishes, but he does not speak.

We stand in silence listening to the night. The smoke feels more comfortable in my lungs now and I experiment with bigger puffs. He leans over and spits on the sewer grate. A group exits the bar. A couple guys with a group of decent looking girls. I consider that it may have been better to hedge my bets on one of them.

“If you hit the Burger Shack down the road right now you’d be in a good position to pick up a girl on her way home for the evening.” I looked at the Bar Prophet. He gazed calmly back and nodded in the direction of the gaggle that had just left. I quickly dispelled the idea of clairvoyance.

“One way or another I’m going to talk to her again. At this point I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He points at me with his cigarette, “Exactly! You’ve got nothing to lose. You’ve always got to fight like you’re surrounded. But, you’re not going to. You’ve got to go in there and force yourself not to care whether you see this girl again or not. Right now, you see her as something she’s not and you’re going to go in there and reaffirm that for her.”

I feel a flash of anger. “How can I ignore the fact that she’s a Goddess?” I say it a little too loudly.

The Bar Prophet laughs. It’s a slow and eviscerating laugh. Hardly escaping his mouth, but it cuts deep. I can tell I’ve tickled him. “Go tell her that,” he says. “She’s heard it all before.”

Frustration peaks. “Okay. Fine. I’m an idiot. Tell me what to say. Explain it to me because I’m probably not going to win at this anyway.”

He sighs and leans forward, “okay, kid. You got to take the love away. What I mean by that is you need to make things unpredictable. If you go in there and walk up, tell her she is a Goddess she will be gracious, but ultimately uninterested. Why not try it from a different angle?”

“Okay, so…”

“Visualize what you want and work backwards from there. Be clinical and interesting at the same time. Be mysterious, but don’t be an asshole it doesn’t suit you.”

I drop what’s left of my cigarette. “Alright, well I guess I’m going to go take a swing at it.”

“One more thing,” he says. “Order something other than beer and tell the bartender you’re friend outside will pick up the tab.”

Another surprise. “You sure, dude?”

“Jesus Christ… don’t call me dude. Don’t make me regret picking up your drink.”

“Okay, thanks. I’m James by the way.”

“Rick. Get in there.”

I turn and open the door to the ‘lounge’. The air is hot and moist from all the body heat. I immediately feel the sweat on my back. I head towards the angel and pick a spot next to her to order my drink. I make eye contact with the bartender and he comes my way. “Two fingers of crown with an ice cube, please. My friend outside will pick up the drink.” The bartender looks over my shoulder and nods.

“American rye is better.” The Angel speaks just loud enough for me to catch it. I turn quickly. I look her in the eyes and hold back the urge to say the first thing on my mind.

The bartender comes to my rescue delivering my drink. Quickly, I take a sip. I wasn’t expecting her to speak to me first. The cooling rye sparked my brain and I revaluated the situation. “I like Canadian Rye at the end of the night because it reminds me that sometimes faking it ‘till you make it is a worthwhile achievement.” Shaky at best, but I will have to run with it.

A small laugh. A small victory. “Oh yeah? What makes you say that?” She takes a sip of her own glass.

“Well, Canadian rye isn’t actually made with rye it’s just the name on the bottle. So, it isn’t what the label says it is, but goddamn, is it smooth.” I make a mock salute with my glass and take a mouthful.

She giggles again. I fight not to smile like an idiot.

Take the love away. “It reminds me a bit of you, actually,” I hear myself saying.

Her smile turns to a slight frown. “How do you mean?”

“I just mean that I’m sure you’ve been given a lot of labels or been expected to be a certain way, but something tells me that you’re quite different. You’re probably a weirdo”

She looks at me suspiciously. I wonder how good I’m playing off looking calm. I’m trying to look as relaxed as possible and to stop my damned leg from shaking. In what feels like an eternity she responds, “so, what if I am a weirdo?” Her glass is on the bar now. It feels like I have her full attention for the first time.

“I would say that I regret approaching you like a normal person. I’d much rather see the real you.”

“Oh, would you?” A glimmer of a smile. “What made you have this profound change of heart?”

I lean in closer. “A friend gave me some perspective. He told me to visualize and work backwards and in my mind, I decided that you’re not necessarily what’s written on the label.”

Her smile grows wider. Hope that was once a small sliver of light is now becomes a beacon in my chest. I’m saying the right words. “I’m James by the way. I never mentioned it before.”

“Briar.” She holds out her small pale hand and we exchange a loose handshake our eyes locked. “I’ve never seen you in here before,” she says.

Why build a bar on the Moon?

Originally, the bar was supposed to be on the Sun; but if I followed through with that I could only be open at night. I feel as though the patrons I cater to require their libations day or night and so I settled on the moon.

The Moon is a tough place to set up shop. What with their dry counties. However, I know honest people just need a drink and sometimes they just need a drink to hold onto for dear life. A beverage to see you through the small, but particularly violent storm that is day-to-day existence. I hear you, friend. Which is why I opened this speakeasy. As long as you keep it to yourself and away from any of those Lunar Magistrates; I think we will get along just fine.

The Moon has changed in the short amount of time I have been here. Not as shiny and new as it used to be. Each crater a little less deep, each dust pile a little less charming. But, I don’t let the diminished luminosity of the Moon get me down. I serve folk their drinks and sometimes I sit and I talk with them about their troubles.

This one fellow came in the other day. Real business type. Ordered with authority and wore a suit like plate armor. He was busy trying to heat up his glass of whisky with his eyes and I focused on cleaning glasses myself. He quietly ordered another neat whisky before upending his own glass and downing the whole thing in one go. You see a fella down a drink like that and it just picks at your brain why he did it. I’m not one to let questions like that stew, so I ask him about it as I bring him another drink. I almost wish I hadn’t.

Business hasn’t changed much in the last century. Everyone has to make a dollar, sure; but some search for ways to get it faster and harder. It didn’t take much, just a little suggestion and he told me everything I had already suspected. He told me about Earth and another outbreak. He told me about the cure and just how much it cost to make it and just how much it cost to buy it. He told me how difficult it was to live with what he did and how there were drugs to suppress those feelings. He told me all this and then downed his drink, left money on the bar top, and put on his hat all in one smooth motion.

I tried a moral suppression pill once when I was just some kid. Let me tell you; there is a reason I work a job with booze close at hand.

After all that I didn’t hate the man. In fact, he is one of the reasons I opened a speakeasy on the Moon. Everyone needs a place to drink. Some folks drink slow and easy and others, like the businessman, drink quickly and with purpose. Him, like I, won’t ever forget why were drinking though.

At some point in your life you’ll need a drink. If you’re on the Moon, come have a drink at my place. It’s cheap, I sweep up the dust, and there is no judgement on my side of the bar.