The bar smelled of rotting flesh and strong alcohol. The zombies roamed the bar, either muttering to themselves or giving a slurred greeting, one even singing off-key.

The large and deformed bartender stood behind the counter, staring off into space. As if waiting to hear the chair creak as a sign of someone's presence. Then he heard it: Footsteps and then a creak.

He slowly turned around. Even with four legs his fat slowed him down immensely. The counter creaked under his hand once he sat it down.

He didn't ask what you wanted. He simply grabbed two cups, one big and one small, then hit the cask tied to his back, letting the strange cyan colored alcohol pour into both cups.

He slammed the small cup down in front of you, keeping the larger one for himself.

"Drink, gulp it down, wet your whistle. Tell your story."