First created January 25th, 2023.
Last edited December 5th, 2023.
A man walks into a bar.
Heâs had a long day, at some no-name job no oneâs ever heard of.
Itâs an inglorious job, the one he has.
The horse bartender says âWhy the long face?â
The man, in response, says,
âGo fuck yourse-â
You are now the horse bartender, a few hours ago at the start of your shift. While the fact that you are a horse makes integrating yourself into modern society rather difficult, youâve found your passion and your niche in this ever-changing world,
as a bartender.
You make some of the most wonderful cocktails in the city, and while one would believe it would be hard to operate the various bar equipment and utensils needed to make such drinks, itâs rather easy despite your lack of opposable thumbs.
Or fingers.
Or any other bejointed digits.
Itâs a bog standard day for you so far, there've been a few jokes related to you being a horse, but you stopped minding after day three, because of course you look like that! Youâre a horse for peteâs sake, itâs most definitely not normal of you to be in a bar.
Or talk.
Or be able to make spectacular drinks.
But hey, whatever pays the bills and makes you happy while doing so.
Then, a rather downtrodden man walks into your bar. Heâs dressed in a rumpled baby-blue dress shirt, black slacks, and some overshined dress shoes. He takes a seat on one of the stools, and as you stride on over, you see an opening. Itâs all downhill from there.
You are now a random bargoer sitting at a corner table. You are a rather young man, just 22 years of age, and youâve started frequenting this bar for its cozy atmosphere and laid-back vibe that lets you focus while you get your midterm work over with.
Suddenly, you hear a loud shouting from the bar that makes you look up, and you bear witness to a man grabbing the bartender by the snout (snout? nose? what the hell would that end of a horseâs face be called?) and slam his whole head into the well-cared for stained mahogany bar.
You see a fight break out, as multiple patrons, who are all friends with the bartender thanks to his amiable nature, impressive skill and mixologistâs finesse, leap forth to defend their friend, one landing a solid punch to the manâs gutâ ouch, that mustâve hit the liver âand another hooking his neck with their arm and kicking the back of his knee, knocking him to the floor with a hefty thud.
You watch awestruck as the fight goes on for minutes, more patrons joining in on the absolutely hellish beating this man is getting, before they collectively pick him up and literally throw him out the door headfirst. By the time you can get a look at him as heâs picked up from the floor, his face looked like itâd been put through a trash compactor, and he was bruised all over like a simulated box of pears in transit.
As everyone returns to their seats, and the energy dies down, you pack up your workstuffs and belongings and stop by the bar to check on the bartender before you leave.
âHey!â you say, politely, yet sheepish,
âYou doing alright? I was just about to leave, but I wanted to check in before I did.â
The bartender has a small cube of ice resting on his nose as he speaks.
âYeah, sure didnât expect THAT kind of reaction, but hey, shit happens, I guess.â
âWell, Iâm glad to see youâre faring better than whoever that guy was. Oof, gotta leave, class soon. Have a good one!â you say, waving on your way out.
The bartender waves back, which does look a bit strange, considering heâs a horse, but you donât mind.