The universe is a pressure cooker. People have lost a lot of relatives, and dealt with a great deal of shit. You throw alcohol into the mix, and violent incidents will happen. It is part of working here, like changing the barrels, or sweeping the floor.
Some calm down when I remind them this is the last place that sells decent beer for a long old way. Other times my hook comes in use. I can cuff aggressors round the head, or use the point to sling out violent drunks.
But we still get tough guys visiting. Last night someone glugged a bottle of whisky in under an hour. He flipped the table, and turned two dozen glasses into lethal confetti. I managed to push him out, but not before he busted me on the mouth.
At least he had paid his tab.
This morning my wound sings loud and long. The skin below my lip is crushed blackberry purple, and every time I speak a rumble of pain reminds me of a scarred and haggard old fist. But sitting on the porch with a towelful of ice and a glass of chilled white wine is not so bad. Life goes on.
Humanity has faced plagues and famine and wars which dropped population numbers seemingly beyond repair. But there was a point during The Haircut where it looked like the whole universe might turn into one big battlefield. This was in concept the living versus the undead. But what does that mean? A simple question, but one that created a scramble of chaos, conspiracies and nonsense kept every sentient being across the stars lacking sleep.
This was way before discovering the flour. Every morning your heard someone mention religious group trying to take control. Or that it was punishment for the galactic increase of secularism. A plan by a corporations to make everyone beholden to them. The business responsible changed by the minute.
When another planet plunged into darkness, each theory claimed this as more proof of their veracity. One day I watched the dead walk past two living bickering, and neither party noticed the others.
What you cannot deny about The Butter Mice is they provided unity in those troubled times. Something to get behind. Their yellow armour and golden scythe still raise a cheer amongst the older visiting patrons. At least we all agreed The Butter Mice were here to help. Well, most of us.
I don’t mind the odd blow to head. I am just glad we still have voices to row with. At least for one more day the universe is not a graveyard of unconscious munching.
