The Bar

There exists, somewhere, in the beauty of the infinitude of time and space, The Bar. A place for anyone and everyone who fancies a drink or two*. A place that attracts strays like a bacon-flavored sleeping bag. A place that’s warm.

I’ve been here before. It’s the spiritual home of the Sasquatch Pill. The barman reckons only yetis drink it, on the basis that it tastes of frostbite and leaves you with a silky fur coat upon departure, despite me proving otherwise. I don’t think he likes me though.

HH seems indecisive- he hasn’t moved much since we entered, and that magic stick with the orange light is nowhere to be seen. I guess Rapture did it’s thing on him too. He needs a drink- but of what?

I take up a seat at a small table, close to the fireplace, and a mug appears. That’s how they serve it here. The mug’s made of something called aerogel (reinforced with carbon tubing), because everything else shatters at room temperature. 

I call for a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, too. With ice. It’s for HH; if this doesn’t fix my companion, nothing will.

He takes the glass, nods, and we down the lot. Ahhhhhhhhggghhhhh…

Several minutes pass. Another drink appears. Mine, I think. HH takes it anyway. For a moment, I’m too intrigued to think about replacing it.

He holds things surprisingly well. Bit messy, but that’s enough cold to knock out a successful walrus. He’s still seated. And…he’s ordered another…

“So…how was it?”

“…Rapture? It was interesting…”

“Did you see them?”

I have to refrain from staring. Another Sasquatch Pill, and this one’s most definitely mine.

“Yes…I think I did.”

HH’s looking at me now- more at my hands than anything. I haven’t told him about them yet. I’m guessing he has his own theories, being a Time Lord and all. He might have seen this happen before, although it seems unlikely, judging by his expression. He’s got questions.

A barrel made of aerogel/carbon-tubing materializes. I ignore the Look** barman is giving me, and a couple of mugs appear. To cut a long story short, I’m getting just a little tired of questions.

For now.

W

*Two, in this case, equals an indeterminable quantity of doublets. It’s often hard to keep track of numbers when you’re mildly poisoning your own liver with a substance that increases the weight of gravity on both limbs and language, but unless you’re a gnarly hero-type busy being gnarly, you never do it alone.

**The Look that says: if there was any way to stop that from happening, I would do it, because right now I don’t know what’s going to happen next.

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