“Sorry Mr. Fantasy, but did you say Vlad the Impaler? I believe he was an actual historical figure. He wouldn’t be here in the land of Make Believe.” John Barelycorn said, immediately regretting it as he did.
“Pardon the confusion.” Mr. Fantasy spoke slowly and clearly. “I did not say Vlad the Impaler. I asked if you had anything made by Glad, the Imp Aler, the finest, yet unfortunately unrecognized, potion brewer in all the land.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” John Barelycorn laughed nervously. “Glad the Imp Aler, of course I’ve got some back here. I mean I think that there’s bound to be a bottle or two somewhere in here.” John Barelycorn was an anxious wreck. He had no idea how he had landed a gig bartending at the Labyrinth. Furthermore, he was even more mystified on how his first day also happened to be the day that Mr. Fantasy—the Mr. Fantasy—was hosting a gala. “Ah, here it is!” John Barleycorn exclaimed. The discovery made him genuinely happy, as though he just completed his life’s great quest. “One bottle of potion brewed by none other than Glad, the Imp Aler. Is there anything else I can get for you Mr. Fantasy?” He asked, tugging at the neck of the bottle.
“I would not uncork that if I were you,” Mr. Fantasy spoke with great caution. “To do so would be truly catastrophic for you and I, not to mention about half of my guest list—though between you and I, if I could choose which half I just might tell you to get on with it.” Mr. Fantasy reached across the bar and removed the bottle from John Barleycorn’s willing hands. “Allow me, “ he said.
“Yes, of course Mr. Fantasy.” John Barleycorn said. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, I believe that this will suffice. Best of luck with the rest of your first day, Mr. Barleycorn.” With that, Mr. Fantasy took his leave from the bar.
John Barleycorn puffed out his cheeks and scratched his forehead. He turned to the mirror behind the bar and straightened his straw hat. Leaning in close, he could see the stitching coming loose near his eyebrows. Combing it with the grain, he made a note to get his patch himself up on his next break.
In the mirror he saw a Suit approach the bar. Not just any suit either, this one had somewhere between twelve and fourteen ties, which was thirteen ties by his estimate. There were so many that the Suit was practically a Tuxedo.
John Barleycorn smiled and immediately felt the stitching come loose on his forehead. “What can I do for you Agent?” He said, making it a point not to emote too much. But not to little either. He emoted the exact right amount.
“Was that Mr. Fantasy who was just up here?” The Suit said, glancing backwards to catch a glimpse of the high society.
“In the flesh,” John Barleycorn answered positively. “I mean, I think he was in the flesh. I suppose he could have been an apparition or something.” Positivity went out the window, which was generally the case for John Barleycorn. There wasn’t much he was certain of, but even that was a fact which he wasn’t terribly certain of.
“So what was he drinkin’?” The highly decorated suit asked.
“He ordered a bottle of Glad the Imp Aler.”
“Hmm. Wasn’t he, you know, a real historical figure?”
“You’re thinking of Vlad the Impaler. This is Glad, the Imp Aler, one of the finest, yet unfortunately unrecognized potion brewer in all the land.” John Barleycorn recited from memory. “He was an imp too. I mean he is an imp.”
“Gotcha. I’ll have a bottle of that. If it’s good enough for Mr. Fantasy then it’s good enough for me. Plus, the closet’s picking up the bill,” the agent laughed. “All the overtime I’ve been putting in, it’s about time I took them to the cleaners.”
John Barleycorn laughed, tearing the stitching on his forehead even more. Some straw began to poke though. He would need to stitch it up soon, less he end up feed for the agent’s pega-stallion.
“I would that I could,” he began. “But that there was the only bottle. Probably for the best though. You uncork one of those bottles the wrong way, well let’s just say to do so would be truly catastrophic for you and I—not to mention half the guest list.”
“I gotcha,” the Suit said, surveying the scene once more. “I’ll take a glass of Colored Rain. Whatever you got.”
John Barleycorn grabbed a glass and stuck it under the spout. “Actually it’s Coloured Rain. With a ‘U’,” he handed the glass over, cascades of coloured fog spilling over.
“You sure do know your stuff there,” the Suit peered in to read the nametag, “John Barelycorn. That’s an odd name: Barelycorn.”
“Actually, it’s Barleycorn,” he replied.
“Gotcha. I’m Rainmaker. Agent Rainmaker,” the Suit stuck out a white glove and grabbed John Barleycorn’s prickly hand. “How’d you end up in a gig like this anyway?”
“I don’t know,” John Barleycorn answered, removing his straw hat and scratching his head. “Honestly, I don’t remember yesterday. You ever get the feeling that you were just made up today? Like today was the first day of your life, but you got this whole back story, character traits, shortcomings and quirks?” John Barleycorn said, and this time he was absolutely correct. Only he didn’t have enough conviction to believe it.
John Barleycorn was just made up today. He’s a scarecrow-turned-bartender on his first day on the job, having spent most of his life relegated to the unenviable task of scaring crows, until one day some odd-looking girl and her pretty little dog took him along on their quest to confront the Scmizard of Schmoz (his backstory); who is instantly likeable, friendly, conversationable and abashedly courteous to those he considers worthy of his respect, making him an ideal tender of bar (his character traits); who doesn’t quite believe in himself enough to say anything with conviction (a shortcoming) except for the things that he can repeat verbatim, something he is quite apt at doing (a quirk).
Agent Rainmaker took a long pause (It’s good timing too, because that was one lengthy bit of exposition). “I know exactly what you mean Barelycorn. If it weren’t for all these ties around my neck, I’d say I’m right there with you.” A white glove ran down the length of an the orange and blue striped tie. “I guess it doesn’t matter either way though. I mean we’re all make believe in the land of Make Believe. You know Barelycorn?”
John Barleycorn almost spoke up to correct Agent Rainmaker (about his name (For the dyslexic in the audience: Rainmaker keeps saying Barelycorn; his name is Barleycorn)), but decided against it when his forehead tore a little more.
“You should get that looked at Barelycorn,” Agent Rainmaker said, pointing a gloved finger. “You’ve got some straw poking out.”
“Ah yes,” John Barleycorn said, stuffing the straw back in. “Thank you sir.”
“That’s ma’am, Barelycorn,” Agent Rainmaker raised her glass and finished it off.
“Sorry, Agent Rainmaker.” John Barleycorn said fretfully. “I didn’t realize you were a Pant Suit.”
“Take it easy kid, I’m not gonna bust you,” Agent Rainmaker said. “But it’s just ‘Suit’, you know? No more Suits and Pant Suits. Women’s rights and all.”
“Gotcha.” John Barleycorn said as though it were one of his own quirks, though it most assuredly was one of Agent Rainmaker’s.
“No, I got you,” she drew a pistol from her holster and pulled the trigger. A bill of currency unfurled from the spool that shot out and landed on the bar. “I’ll see you around Barelycorn.”
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