Never tell the truth when a lie will do.

[Markovnikov]

Smoke billowed from all corners of the room, mingling into a thick, acrid, eyewatering soup of bad odors and a certain hazy ambiance that caught rays of the dim lighting.

"Do you have the time, barkeep?"

The bartender's piercing glares had become progressively hostile with every Shirley Temple Monday ordered. The stuff was insidously sweet, an assault of artificial cherry and sugar that left him thirstier for water with every sip. It had to have been a sadist to make it the code phrase for Monday's 18:00 appointment.

"'alf pass six," he said, washing a dirty tumbler with his even dirtier apron. Monday boredly slurped the last of his sixth glass, the grating sound piercing the low din of slow conversations and clinking glasses elsewhere.

The bartender put set aside his dirty tumbler and rested his massive arms on the bar.
"You gonna order real drink, or you gonna waste my time with cheap child beverage?"

Monday was starting to feel a bit queasy, possibly from the six sugary sodas with added grenadine sloshing around. The bartender maintained ominous eye contact, with uncomfortable amounts of throbbing at his vein-y temples.

"I'd like another Shirley Temple," Monday began, hesitantly, tracking the further deterioration of the barkeep's mood by the increasing frequency and amplitude of his facial twitches, "but with a shot of vodka this time, if you please."

"You drink entire stock of grenadine," the barkeep said through gritted teeth, "I make you black hole."

"I don't know what that is," Monday cringed.

The bartender started mixing the contents of various bottles. Moments later, he set down a glass of jet black sludge smelling of cheap alcohol and licorice.
"Doesn't matter. You drink black hole, or I give you black eye. Your choice."

Making a judgement call, Monday passed him twenty credits and a generous tip, before staring down into the viscous void. The stench of licorice hung stickily in an invisible cloud around the glass.

"That's not a Shirley Temple," said a well dressed stranger, slipping into the seat next to mine. He slammed down a fifty credit chit on the bar.
"Two shots of mezcal for myself and my friend here, please. Keep the tip."

"You again. Why can't you ever be on time?"

"I would have, if you could follow directions and not bungle up a simple drink order. What even is that?"

"It tastes like the floor of a synthpaste processing plant. More to the point, you're an hour and seven minutes late."

"I was held up at the terminal, the Libs and Brets have stepped up their snooping on databursts to Barrier Gate. Put your right hand palm side down on the bar."

Monday annoyedly plopped his hand on the bar, as the other man sprayed it with something from a bottle he pulled out of nowhere. Before Monday could open his mouth to ask what was going on, the man savagely stabbed a large needle in between the knuckles and then quickly pulled away.

"Ow what the f-"

"Quiet down and stop drawing attention to us," he said, spraying Monday's hand again. The injection site burned, but there was no sign of blood - only a small bump in between the knuckles.
"It's a biometric RF ident-key you'll need for your next assignment. Use it to unlock these sealed orders in your ship."
He slid an odd looking paper drink coaster to Monday.

The barkeep turned around with two shotglasses of what was decidedly not mezcal, and scowled when Monday quickly slipped the coaster into his pocket.

Monday rubbed the injection site gingerly as he stood up.
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm full and I need to take a piss. Watch my jacket for me."

The handler shrugged and downed both glasses before turning to finish the Black Hole that Monday had left behind.
"That's absolutely vile," he winced.

Monday smirked and continued out the door, barely catching the handler order his next drink,
"I'd like to order a Shirley Temple, please."

He could hear the sound of glass shattering from outside.