Liquor Store at the Edge of Time

I was somewhere between Pluto and Bensonhurst when the mescal kicked in.

The shelves began to breathe, bottles whispering wholesale prices in extinct alien

languages. Neon Budweisers floated like satellites. The register screamed, "Error

404: Reality not found," and I knew this was no ordinary closing shift.

I am Sarge, temporary cashier of the universe, armed with a barcode scanner

and a deep distrust of authority. This is the liquor store at the edge of

time. Where the vodka is honest and the customers lie.

Intergalactic hangover, no-return policy. We sell spirits- Literal and otherwise. A Martian