[B4R] Come in and have a drink.

[Sord]

An old building is before you. A faded, brown brick husk that stands alone among the rotting garbage heaps in the ghost town of FKL. Its design is simple and rectangular. A solid wooden door marks the entrance, black paint chipping off its surface to reveal the old and battered surface underneath. There's a square window on each side of the door, but you can't even see through them on account of the layers of dust that have caked their surface over the years. Flickering, red neon letters are mounted to the brick wall above the door. They simply read "B4R." Even when the light of the sign manages to stay on for a few seconds, it's a dull memory of what it once was. Here too, dust has made a home. It suffocates the light, stopping it from pushing through the cold still night around you. Opening the door and stepping through, you find yourself in a dimly lit, wooden affair. Soft yellow light washes over empty tables and chairs, devoid of any cushions. If you look closely you can see all their varnish has been rubbed thin or is gone completely in spots. Many tabletops are etched with graffiti or plain old scratches. At the far end is a bar with a row of stools in front of it, and countless bottles of spirits behind it. It is there I stand, in a faded black vest and tie over a yellowing once-white shirt. My hair has grown out, along with a goatee. The skin around my eyes is dark, giving the appearance my eyes have sunken in over the years as time, substances, and the trials of life took their toll on my body. I'm a rather sullen face if you go by the fact a smile doesn't seem like it'd fit on my lips, but otherwise it gives away little more than a poker-face. When I speak, my voice is deep, tired, and sounds as if I am being perpetually annoyed by something that never ends.

"Come in, come in. Have a drink. But I don't do cocktails, and we sure as hell don't serve milk. Simple, neat, and strong is the name of the game now. Whether you're an old soul coming back to relive memories or a curious newcomer, I don't care. I serve all, as long as you got the @s. But if you're gonna vomit or spill someone's blood, do it outside. Nitro and his buggit aren't around much anymore to clean the place up, and I don't much care for cleanin' up after you. So, what'll it be?"

[PhotonDrop]

Dead B4R. Dead board. Dead game. That said, hi Sord. Give me a Jim Beam.

[Katrina]

Carefully making my way down the aisle to the last booth, stepping over broken glass and old faded propaganda photos and sketches for some kind of election. Notice the strong smell of must and decay, and a sense of melancholy overcomes me as i peer through the darkness about the room. Behind the bar I notice an odd hastily carved doodle of what looks like a dual-gendered cat.

My ankle twists slightly as my foot slips on a pair of handcuffs hidden beneath the piles of debris and dust. The cuffs are dull and faded. It looks like a name or phrase is etched into the metal, but I can't make it out.

[ShinMaruku]

Such a pretty reflection.

[PhotonDrop]

The redhead leans against the rough countertop as she waits for her drink. The surface reflects its years of service yet still shows enough vigor to endure years more if the clientele existed . She had always known of the B4R during its heyday, but never took the time to stop and socialize. What kind of stories would this dusty saloon tell? A hint of a smile and a soft chuckle escape her as she realizes those stories are a mere search away.

Sounds of activity catch the newman's attention, causing her pointed ears to twitch curiously. She turns to see someone mulling about the booths. The dim lighting obscures their appearance from view. She squints to try to make out further details, only to be startled by yet another visitor blasting youtubez.

[yoshiblue]

The 100 wonders of B4R: #272
CRTs that magically appear out of nowhere.

[ShinMaruku]

Yura is up to her chickanery the witch!

[Sord]

By some sheer miraculous happenstance the bartender had become quite the opposite he once was. Brightly dressed in vivid colors and a rainbow doo rag to keep his long hair out of his face, he pours PhotonDrop her Jim Bean. His face is rather calm, with an undercurrent of happiness that seems like it could bubble to the surface if he wanted to let it. Jovially, the man declares, "Aye, may have taken half a year to get yah your drink, but alcohol's always better with age, right?" He put the drink before his red-headed old acquaintance. Then busied himself with setting some tea to steep.

[W0LB0T]

I gotta be back to work in 5, just get me a quick Darwin stubby.

[PhotonDrop]

Roused by the sound of glass clattering and drink pouring, the newman picks herself up off the floor as if freed from ten thousand years confinement in a space dumpster. The new sunny disposition of the barkeep catches her off guard. Always having pegged the man for a nihilist, she cocks her head to the side, unsure if it is the same person at all.
"Looks like alcohol isn't the only thing that gets better with age. What's got you in such high spirits?"
...
"No pun intended."