Your life and payment for this rather lengthy bar tab, which stretches some 72 meters last time I checked. Pay the cashier on your way out.
Sure!
*leads out a mule hauling a cart loaded with a fifty-gallon drum of candy crush soda*
And for you ...
*leads the mule over after unloading the cart*
One mule from Moscow, as requested. Her name is Ivanka.
Elite leomonade and Local now news
Mindon
Oh. Well, I’ll have to acquire some funds very quickly to pay that off. Give me a moment.
669-333: What’s today’s password? Mindon: 22 Dead Men in a box. 669-333: What do you need boss? Mindon: Send a team to covertly hijack a shipment of gold, then sell it on the black market. Send the profits to the The Bar on the corner of every region 669-333: Paying up your bar tab again? Mindon: Never mind how much of a bar tab I may or may not have racked up, just do it. 669-333: Alright boss, I’ll call you when it’s done.
Is it okay if I arrange payment to be delivered in the next five or so days?
*Takes the slice of lime and runs it around the rim, before squeezing the remaining juice into the ginger flavoured concoction. He takes a sip, then makes a face.* That ginger isn't up to much.
Anacin and Howard beale
Samuel pepys
Watches through a window.
Anacin and Howard beale
Anacin
Sir, if your going to stare, go to the peep show next door.
Looks around at the strange environs one has found themselves in
Pray tell is this Heaven? I suppose a tavern outside the realities of a plague ridden olde London town are fine compared to one inside such a reality...
Sure. Time is at best an illusion, and at worst a hairy, drooling monster intent on crushing the life out of each and every one of us ... or am I thinking of TheOrc?
Why, surely, good sirrah, this is that very Heaven of which you speak, so long as this Heaven of yours includes copious amounts of spirits, a chef who may or may not be intent on using dead patrons as an ingredient in every dish, and an array of quasi-mythical deities and monsters wandering the premises. If you stop by the restrooms, remember to say hello to Cthulhu, who lives in there.
Heh. Little does that guy know we drained hir bank account less than an hour ago. Hey, TheOrc has been busy in the back room.
Names are too hard
I would like to order a money-Rita. It’s a specialty cocktail made with 3 hundred dollar bills in a champagne flute.
Mindon
You know I can hear you right? The window still hasn't been repaired from when Howard beale shot a rocket through it in order to blow up what he thought was my car.
Sure there is. Our Cthulhu is bigger ... and meaner ... And we have a Spaghetti Monster in the basement. And we serve drinks. The fare here may kill you, but isn't the element of danger half the fun?
You know we don't care whether you hear or not, right? We drained your account, so you can't afford a lawyer to sue us. Besides, TheOrc tends to eat everyone who tries to sue us ... which probably explains why TheOrc is so fat--er, I mean, well-fed.
Here you go--the Bar's version, a Monopoly-money-rita. It's a specialty version made with pureed Monopoly money, since our cashiers both died recently, and no one else can get into the cash drawer.