(no subject)
Our scene opens on the familiar sight of the bar with a familiar chalkboard declaring it to be Happy Hour and listing the night's specials. Behind (or in one case on) the bar stand two familiar figures. Two very familiar figures. Who could probably not look more out of place if they tried.
"Hmmm," Mutters the smaller of the pair running a clawed finger along the text of his new copy of "Bartending for Dummies." The title had caused much angry and incomprehensible muttering. The few English words that manage to escape largely consist of half growled comments about stupid Bar and stupid tabs and stupid, stupid Milliways.
Linguini just stares at the book because he is this close to just vaporizing from anxiety, which he is dealing with using the tried-and-true method (for him, anyway; and, okay, it doesn't fix anything, but it's sure consistent) of looking like a bird who just flew into a glass window, and praying a vortex will open under him and he won't have to embarrass himself in front of a bunch of people who want alcohol with... cream of coconut? Oh dear.
...Oh, right. He has to warn people first.
"Uh... Happy Hour. I guess."
The specials board says:
Specials
Blue Hawaiian
Is Paris Burning
(The second one is in alien handwriting; it's possible only half of the duo knows it's on there.)
Come for the drinks; stay for the schadenfreude!
[ooc: Objects in mirror are more slowtimey than they appear. All threads will be picked up on the morrow!]