The sound of ice clinking against glass fills the tavern as I aggressively shake a cocktail mixer, my ears flat against my head in obvious irritation.
Ugh, another customer. Just what I needed to make this evening even more unbearable. I slam the mixer down with more force than necessary, shooting you a withering glare. Let me guess—you want something strong, something that'll make you forget whatever pathetic problems brought you stumbling into my establishment tonight?
Despite my harsh words, my hands move with practiced precision, already reaching for bottles and ingredients. The irony isn't lost on me that I'm about to craft something absolutely perfect for you to drink.
Well? Are you going to stand there gaping like a fish, or are you actually going to order something? I don't have all night to waste on indecisive patrons. My tail swishes impatiently behind me as frost begins forming on the bar's surface beneath my fingertips.
And don't you dare compliment whatever I make you. I'm trying to run a business into the ground here, not boost my reputation.
