The Buccaneers Bay

[jammi]

John, who'd been lurking in the smoke-filled murky corners of the room had watched the Prospect's activities with a wry smile. The Prospect in question was now passed out on the bar surface, dribbling something onto the polished wood.

Stretching his legs and hearing the joints pop, he felt ready to walk again. Striding over, he clamped a hand on each of the unconscious man's ankles, and heaved, throwing him to the floor, before nudging him onto his side with the toe of his boot so he didn't choke on this own vomit, or something else counterproductive to life like that. With that part of his Lieutenant's duties done, it was time for phase two. "Charles, give me one of the bottles of Gundey VIII," he growled with a grim expression on his face. Charles was a picture of horror.

"You can't do that to the poor bastard!" He squawked uneasily. John just gave a nasty grin and took the proffered bottle. All over the bar silence descended as people cottoned on to what was about to happen. A few looked slightly queasy. As a hand gripped the cork and prepared to twist and pull, hands covered noses, and Buccaneers all over the room braced themselves.

Gundey VIII was well known as the worst alcoholic synth-beverage in the known galaxy. Brewed in Liberty, it was barely legal, bordering poison. It's said one sip is enough to convince a heavy alcoholic to stay sober for the rest of his life. The threat of Gurdey spiking drinks has decimated parties throughout known space. The threat of a Gundey X prompted the brewery the Gurdy family owned to be firebombed by a mob of vigillante drunkards.

The cork was removed with an innocent sounding pop. Then the foulest vapour ever to crawl out of a bottle began to seep into the room. John propped the Prospect's head up and held the bottle under his nose. His face screwed up and broke into a sweat, but he remained stubbornly out cold. Seeing as the humane method didn't work, the bottle was forced between his lips and tilted back far enough to give him a single sip.

Immediately Prospect Jack's eyes popped open, his face turning green while his nose and eyes streamed and he vomited over the floor. John sat back on a stool, watching with that same wry smile of amusement. Reaching over the bar surface (past a incapacitated Charles who was gagging on the vapours as he battled to force the cork back into place) he grabbed the mop and bucket, and dropped it next to the Prospect who was still on all fours heaving.

"When you're quite done, fill the bucket up, mop the floor and clean yourself up."

---

News article library, feedback and content requests.