Isekai Hero Bartender

"Collections sound like thirsty work. Anyone fancy a drink first?"

My heart was pounding through my chest when I asked. The whole bar area seemed to shake with every heavy thump. For a second, I worried the pirates could hear each rapid beat and know I was up to something.

Fortunately, that obviously wasn't the case. Nobody's heartbeat is that loud. And these guys weren't the most perceptive men in the world. Nor the brightest.

Except for Strider. That guy could be trouble.

"A collections tipple? I'll drink to that!" Buckshank immediately approached the bar and laid one hairy arm on top of it. "What are you serving today?"

The human and the orc soon followed, sidling up on either side of him.

"I'll take a sour. No egg white," the human said.

"I'll take a sour. With egg white. Plus his egg white, too."

The orc's order was odd, but I'd be up for anything to get them all drinking.

"Sure thing." I tipped my imaginary hat to them and began arranging my mise en place. "Oh, one more thing. Got a last-minute menu addition or two."

Under the other items, I added:

– Dark and Stormy, two copper

– Seaport Mule, two copper

– Ginger Soda (non-alcoholic), one copper

I’d have to be careful not to call it ginger ale or ginger beer. Both terms could be misleading. Any hint that it had alcohol could throw off my plan. That said, it was heavily fermented. I was pretty sure the strength of the stuff could rival most beers.

Strider hung back, looking annoyed with his fellow pirates. His arms were crossed, and a scowl pulled his thin mustache down comically into something that looked like the McDonald's arches.

I caught his attention. “For you, maybe a sparkling ginger beverage. It settles the stomach, warms the core, and makes you brave and confident."

His lip curled skeptically. "And there's really no alcohol? I like to keep a clear head while I'm working."

"Not a drop. It tastes great with a shot or two in it, but I like to provide something for those who abstain.”

"Come on, you lanky sea dog. Quit being so stiff and join us at the bar for once," Buckshank barked.

"Yeah, come on, boss. It's a small town. We can cover all the collections in an hour or two. There's no rush," put in the orc, scratching his underarm and then smelling it.

The red-haired piled on. "Besides, we don’t need perfect sobriety. Nobody’s going to fight back. They tried that years ago. The constable is a coward, and her deputies are weak."

Strider muttered several oaths that were too explicit to repeat. They were the kinds of things that would make a trucker blush. Some of his curses would even make a frat house vomit. Finally, he relented.

"Fine. One ginger soda."

It was the moment of truth. There was no backing out now. I hadn’t tried my fermented concoction yet. It glittered a cloudy gold behind the bar, sparkling in several ominous fliptop bottles.

I pulled out two glasses and filled them with ice. In one, I added a splash of moonshine, making my addition of liquor obvious. Slowly, I eased the cap off. A rush of bottled gases escaped, sounding suspiciously like a wet fart.

The aroma of bright, fresh ginger filled the air. The other sailors who were waiting for their drinks took note. I filled both glasses with ginger beer and added a wedge of lime. I passed the low-alcohol version to Strider, squeezed lime in mine, and set my jaw. If food travel YouTubers could eat raw goat hearts for adventure, I could try a damn soda.

Strider watched as I took a sip.

“Well?”

The burning sharpness of ginger raced across my tongue like a razor. A rich, full sweetness followed. All of my favorite brands paled in comparison to what I’d made.

“Oh, shit that’s good. It’s… it’s perfect.”

Strider shrugged and tried my concoction. I could tell by his expression that he was impressed. He took another sip before putting his glass back on the bar top.

"That really is exquisite. My compliments.”

I finished making the other pirates’ drinks and passed them over. Every pour got a heavy hand, loading them up with nearly twice as much moonshine as the recipe called for.

My plan was in motion. Unfortunately, so was my night. Looking down, I noticed that I was already halfway finished with the drink I’d made myself. There I was, supposed to be pacing myself and keeping a clear head to save Wynnie and the town, and I was letting the alcohol take control already.

Wynnie’s sausage rolls could slow the absorption only so much. Suddenly, everything became clear. Like Strider, I was drinking to win. And he didn’t know it yet, but with that ginger beer, he was already in the race.

I just hoped he shared my weakness. One drink was never enough, and two was too many. I just needed to get him to two.

***

“Why’s they call’n that a mule?”

Buckshank was slurring. He pointed at the second drink I’d made for myself. He and the other pirates were finishing their fourth round. Strider had just picked up pace on his second, despite repeatedly reminding the others that it was about time for them to go.

I winked and raised my glass before taking a sip. “Because it’s got quite a kick.”

It really did. That moonshine was assertive and bracing. Yet with the mixers, it was gentle enough to go down easy.

The pirates were settling in, getting louder with each sip. They were easy to cajole into more drinks. Years of practice made small manipulations easy. Asking them if they’d tried a different drink on the menu, describing the harmonious flavors of a particular spirit. It was all second nature, and they followed blind drunk.

I added a touch of chamomile-mint syrup to everything, letting the soporific herbs slowly work their magic. I’d also taken the time to stoke the hearth and close the shutters. The inn grew warm and comfortable, safe from the remaining hours of daylight. If it worked in casinos and dive bars, then maybe it could work here, too.

Finally, I visited Wynnie in the kitchen. She was fretting over something on the stove. Her fingers worked the hem of her sleeve anxiously, and she couldn't stand still. When she noticed me, she rushed over and threw her arms around my neck.

"Are you okay out there? I've just been worried sick wondering how you're doing."

I gave her the most reassuring smile I could muster. "I'm doing just fine. I could use another sausage roll if you have one to spare."

She rushed over to the warming plate on the stove and handed one to me.

I took a bite and closed my eyes, letting out a groan of approval. It tasted even better now that I'd been drinking.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Actually, there is." It was a long shot, but these pirates were getting drunk. Drunk people were unpredictable. I wanted to be ready for every possibility. “How quickly could you freeze a glass of water?

She thought on it for a beat and shrugged. “If I really tried? A second or two.”

“And could you freeze the blood in a man’s veins?”

Her eyes widened in shock. “I… I’ve never considered it, but… I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t do it.”

For some reason, that filled me with relief. So much of what drew me to Wynnie was her kindness and innocence. If she’d suggested she could be a killer, that could change the way I saw her. I liked her sweet and pure, without a murderous bone in her body.

“Why do you ask?” She fixed me with a concerned gaze.

“Um. Things might get weird. Don’t worry, though. I’ll figure everything out.”

“Okay. I trust you, Drew. Please, just be safe. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

“I… trust you too,” I said. “Too many things matter to me here to risk it. Too many people.”

That was how I knew I wasn’t drunk yet. Sober me was always guarded with his feelings. Drunk me wouldn’t have said trust. He’d have told her just how much he’d grown to care about her. At the top of his lungs, too.

But now wasn’t the time. I was locked in a deadly drinking contest with the fate of the town at stake. Not that the pirates knew it yet, but that’s where this was headed.

I kissed her goodbye and greeted the scurvy crew back out at the bar. The three idiots were already finishing their fourth round. Strider was finally taking the last sip of his second. They all looked ready to leave. By my estimation, I'd only kept them a half hour, and nobody was anywhere near drunk enough for me to pull off my master plan.

Strider sat back in his chair, looking ready to leave. He glanced over at his companions while they continued drinking. He cleared his throat aggressively, like he needed to dislodge a gerbil.

"All right, enough delays. Time for collections."

Nobody budged. Buckshank threw him what I took to be a foreign rude gesture. It was simultaneously crude, yet specific.

“Can I get you another drink while you wait for them?”

I nodded encouragingly to Strider. My tone was obnoxiously innocent—a sneaky bartender trick that makes another drink sound harmless. A casual query to introduce serious consequences.

That’s how people wind up with hundred-dollar bar tabs to go with their happy hour burgers.

“There’s only so much ginger soda a man can drink before he craves something real. And I told you already, I don’t drink for fun—”

“You drink to win,” I said, concluding his sentence for him. Time to see if the two drinks he’d unknowingly drank lowered his inhibitions enough for my plan to succeed. “Tell you what. Why don’t we make a bet on it then? A gentleman’s wager.”

“A drinking contest, you mean.”

I shrugged. “Unless you’re afraid of getting shown up by an alcohol professional.” I pointed one cocky thumb at my chest.

Though my thumb may have swagger, the rest of me was full of anticipation and doubt. This guy had been teetotaling to the max. Now, I’d just pitched an all-you-can-drink bad idea fest. If he were still sober, he’d shoot me down harder than grapeshot through sails.

But if he were just tipsy enough to hear the constant, desperate roar in his heart for a good time?

He leaned in close until I could smell the ginger and tooth decay on his wicked smile.

“What’s the wager?”

The ginger beer had worked. And I’d been right about Strider.

I laid out my terms. Free drinks all around. I sweetened the pot for Strider specifically. To my surprise, he took both the bait and the bet. There was only one hangup on my end, and it was sentimental rather than practical.

“So if you win, your little inn here doesn’t have to pay for protection?”

“You also guarantee to pay your tab in full and promise no harm or retaliation comes to us,” I reminded him.

“Right. And if I win, we stay here for free, plus we still collect. Oh, and I get to choose any bottle I want from the wall behind you.”

There it was once again. The gut punch. I was just building up my back bar, and I could count the number of actually desirable bottles on one hand.

“I still think I should be the one to pick the bottle,” I said.

He shook his head. His cruel smile widened like a cartoon villain’s. “Nope. No deal, then. You have an unopened bottle of Daddy Von Stinkle up there.”

Strider was looking at the bottles the rumrunners had traded to us. They decorated the wall in an orderly manner, gleaming in the final dying slivers of sunlight that somehow made it through the shuttered windows.

I hadn't even tried them yet. Letting one of my best bottles slip through my hands untested was a hard pill to swallow on its own. That I might lose it to the very people the generous captain asked me not to share it with made it that much worse.

“This one?”

I grabbed a bottle of something brown. A crinkled gold band wrapped around the cap, and a crimson ribbon hung loosely around the neck. On the label, in an ornate Gothic print, it read: Isle of Bragos.

"Nope. It’s the green one with the blue label.”

With a defeated sigh, I pulled the bottle down from its high perch. It felt extra weighty in my hands. The glass was thick, gleaming with an almost pearlescent shine.

"This is the stuff you wanted?" I asked, showing him the label.

"That's my favorite. It's worth a small fortune to the right person."

“I guess you’re the right person,” I grumbled. I raised my hands in surrender. "You have a deal, but on one last condition: I pick the drinks."

For some reason, the pirates cheered at that. Even Strider looked happy. His cruel smile twisted into something borderline friendly.

The stakes wouldn’t matter. There was no way I was going to lose to him. It was time to show him that professional drinkers had an edge over professional sailors. They wouldn’t know what hit them.

It was time to over-serve. For justice.

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