The Bartender

You waddle across the room, approaching the slim man behind the counter. The man is well dressed with a white button shirt and suspenders. You're surprised at how classy the place has become, as you've never seen someone behind the bar with anything more than a paisley shirt.

"Hi, what can I getcha," the bartender asks you, still a few feet away from the counter.

You plop down on a stool in front of the man, who is giving you his full attention. You glance to your side to see the mass of sports fans attentively watching the TV, before turning back to the man and offering a puzzled expression. What do you want?

"Give me the strongest thing you got back there."

The bartender smirks, before spinning on his heels and reaching up to one of the highest shelves behind him, retrieving a rectangular green bottle filled with god-knows-what. He turns back around and places a small glass he seemingly got from nowhere in front of you, filling it with the golden liquid that contains practically caustic fumes.

You down the poison instantly, and see the bartender chuckle out of the corner of your eye. You groan at the taste, but figure that one drink will drown whatever sorrows you uncover. The bartender materializes another glass and pours the same drink into it. You almost grab the glass out of his hands before he brings it up to his own mouth and downs it.

"...Are you supposed to be drinking on the job?" You pose to the bartender, smacking his lips.

"As long as I'm still serving capable, they take what I drink out of my pay." The bartender reaches his hand up to his face and pats himself on his rosy cheek. "Although, I am a little tipsy. I should probably be holding back," he snorts.

You frown. That brew has awakened your inner horndog and you're starting to think it's a good idea to pose a question to the man.