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a kid walks into a bar. a viper meets him.[break][break]

she is running a dirty rag over aged, scratched glasses when he enters. though the bell over the door announces his entrance, the bartender hardly spares a glance upward from her task. in distant shores, far away from this den of debauchery, such isolation between client and proprietor must seem rude. for the snake pit, though, it is typical. absinthe reserves her full attention only for the clients who truly deserve it, and few regulars have even made their way onto this exclusive list.[break][break]

the door creaks as it swings on its hinges again, closing with a click like a rattlesnake. footsteps approach the counter and the kid speaks. 'ma'am', he calls her, and absinthe's throat undulates with the force of a hardly suppressed laugh.[break][break]

it's been years since she's been spoken to like this—like somebody deserving of respect. this is how she knows the boy in front of her is barking up the wrong tree.[break][break]

absinthe sets down her rag, her cup, and her dignity, and lifts her head to meet the boy's gaze.[break][break]

"i don't carry sherry," she replies finally. "either ask for hard liquor or get the hell out."[break][break]

she tilts her head, eyes narrowing.[break][break]

"you lost?"

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