100 Cocktails Later

100 Cocktails Later

“It’s pink.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Barbarians do not drink pink drinks.”

“You don’t have to look at it, just drink it.”

“You not listen to Cragar. Barbarians do not drink pink drinks.”

“Fine,” Madrigal sighed. She looked at the weary barman who was half hidden behind the collection of empty glasses lined along the bar. “Do you know any more cocktail recipes that don’t turn out pink?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, still slightly bemused that a barbarian the size of Cragar hadn’t passed out from the amount he had drunk already.

Madrigal took a sip of the vividly pink cocktail. “Tastes alright to me,” she said.

“You girl. Girls like pink.”

“Wizard, Cragar. I’m a wizard too.”

Cragar grinned. “Wizard. Girl. They all like pink.”

Madrigal set down her glass and glared at her companion. She considered having the argument again, but it was hard to have an intellectual debate with someone who couldn’t even spell misogyny.

“I’m tired of all the beer. After every adventure we end up in the same seedy taverns drinking the same rubbish beer.”

“Cragar like beer.”

“Yes, that has proved spectacularly evident. But ‘Madrigal bloody sick of it’. Look, you promised, this time we’d go somewhere I liked.”

“But bar of cocks not have any beer.”

“Cocktail bar Cragar, and no, that’s why we’re here. This is the only cocktail bar in the whole of Davielish. I’ve wanted to try it for ages and we made lots of money on that last haul. So stop drinking plain boring spirits and try something.”

“Cragar has found the not water to his liking, but does not like the burny taste.”

“Even after several shots of it?”

“Cragar needed to be sure was not dragon breath potion. Wanted to breathe fire. Cragar disappointed.”

The barman, who had been shaking and mixing while the two adventurers talked, finally placed a deep purple liquid in front of Cragar. The barbarian sniffed it tentatively.

“Blackberries. This girl drink.”

“What did we talk about only last week Cragar?”

“Sorry. This woman drink.”

“Fine, better, I think. Just drink it.”

The barbarian gave it another careful sniff then gulped the liquid down in one hit.

“Mmmm,” he drooled. “Taste like healing potion. Cragar like. More.”

The barman poured out the rest of the mix, which Cragar downed in a single gulp again.

“These tails of chickens are not bad when they come in better colours. This was good idea wizard.”

Madrigal felt pleasantly vindicated but begun to consider another issue as Cragar threw back another mixture. Getting into the swing of things he began to try other colours too.

“Perhaps you should slow down a little,” Madrigal warned.

“Why? Drinks not beer. Can drink many pints of beer so girl, sorry, wizard, drinks will not be problem.”

Madrigal sighed and gave up. He was going to have to learn this lesson for himself and there was no point arguing. After what must have been a hundred of the elegantly shaded drinks the barbarian began to look a little ill. All at once he seemed to come to an understanding. Shouting the word ‘Sorcery!’ and layering it heavily in blame as the only possibly explanation, he glared at Madrigal and passed out.

Not for the first time, Madrigal began to wonder why she’d never crafted a spell to get an unconscious barbarian up the stairs to bed.