"Seven-thousand nine-hundred and sixteen." "Oh?" "That's how many standard drinks are supposed to be in this thing." "And non-standard?" "Just the one, but it's not made with real Santragian seawater. Does have the olive though," he said, spinning the olive round and round. "Well," his friend fussed, "are you going to drink it or not? I've got things to do you know. Very important things." "I'm still thinking about it." "Well what's there to think about? Don't you think it wants to be drunk?" "We're not going there," he explained. "Listen, it's a massive undertaking, drinking this thing, wouldn't you agree?" "Sure." "Then it's going to take a massive undertaking of thought as well. Look, if I could just drink the damn thing, I would. You know I would." "But don't you wish you could?" Without another word, the man drank the drink, which was by all means asking for it, and proceeded to stumble around the bar for several minutes before being thrown into the muddied street. Of course, the planet they were on, Acabea, had brought mud into extinction several thousand years ago after a long and strenuous war. Therefore, every bit of mud on this man's face was entirely artificial. From here, he walked on to the next seedy watering hole, the change jingling in his hand as he slammed it onto a nearby bar stool and demanded another drink. "One pan galactic gargle buster please!" The bartender raised an eyebrow, "You're lookin' wobbly pal." "Oh I'm sure of it!" He shouted at an unsuspecting patron. The drink-man shrugged, saying "It's your funeral," and snapped his fingers. From the dark, two bar wenches in dirndls appeared, grabbing the man by his elbows and half dragging him into a rather seducing and velvet-lit room. Thinking it must be his lucky day, the man smiled and hiccuped, then smiled again. He smiled all the way through the woman taking off their brassieres, giggled helplessly when they began to pull down his pants, and shouted in horror when they began to flip him on his stomach and stick a who-knows-what into his rear port. "I just wanted a drink!" He cried, pushing his half-naked satyr self through the doors of the bar, and back into the street. Unthinking, and very forgetting, he marched right back in through to the bar for another drink. This time, just a tad more sober. "One pan galactic gargle blaster, please," he asked, scooping up his change from the barstool and onto the counter. "Ah-ah, you still haven't paid for the hoo-hah." "Excuse me?" The man asked, one eye open and the other wondering where his friend from earlier had gone to. "Oh! That! I didn't actually receive any hoo-hah, you see." "You break it, you buy it," the bartender said, pointing to the dead hooker in the doorway of the velvet room. "I did that?" The man asked, questioning just how cheap of a prostitute you had to be to be paid for in change and reimbursed for upon death. Sighing, the man pulled out a wad of bills for the dead hoo-hah and left the bar without having a sip.