Arthur Kirkland stood behind his bar, wiping down glasses, and observing the people drinking. There were a few cheerful drinkers from the same factory, celebrating the victory of a recent strike that raised their pay by a couple dollars a week. Some were depressed, drinking to drown out the world and to drain their own miserably empty wallets on alcohol. A few would go home to their families in a rage, abusing their wives and beating their children until they fell unconscious. That was no business of Arthur's, though. It wasn't his problem what people did once they were intoxicated. He just sold the booze.

The year was 1905. Arthur had come to the United States twelve years ago in search of a new life. He'd had a reasonable amount of money with him when he arrived, and had minimal trouble getting through Ellis Isle. He'd ignored the desperate politicians that had greeted him at the gates to America. Ignored the employers in search of factory workers fresh off the boat to do unskilled and menial jobs. He'd heard plenty of horror stories from his older brother who had gone before him. His older brother who sent letters home all the time in the months before he died in a work-related accident. His older brother who had been quite literally sucked into the meat packing industry.*

There was a reason why Arthur hadn't eaten meat for the twelve years he'd been in America.

But that was that, and this was another thing. Being fairly educated, Arthur had been able to obtain a fair-paying job right away. For two years, he worked as a telegraph operator, and slowly made enough money to rent out a little bit of space in an apartment complex to open a bar. It was the one line business he knew would do well in a place like New York, and how right he was. Alcohol was a stable source of income for Arthur. The demand for alcohol could only increase as time went by.

However, there was a problem.

Over the years, Arthur heard of an anti-alcohol cause sweeping through America called Prohibition. Organizations and unions full of women wanted to make the sale of alcohol illegal! And worse off, they were winning! The WCTU was organizing protests against his way of life, and he was helpless to stop them. He'd received angry letters from the wives of the men he sold alcohol to, but that wouldn't stop him. How else could he make enough money to survive? He wasn't about to give up his business and risk his life to go work in a factory for pennies a day. He ran a decent bar. He didn't even poison the alcohol.** There was nothing wrong with what he was doing.

He was lucky to still be in business, though, and he knew it. It was only a matter of time before the women broke through to the government and ruined his livelihood.

"Deuteronomy 32:33! Intoxicating wine is like the poison of serpents, the cruel venom of asps!"

Arthur and a few of his customers looked up to the door in horror. A tall and large woman made her way through the small crowd of celebrators and mourners, a Bible in one hand and a hatchet in the other. Her face was set with a look of determination and anger. She opened her mouth and shouted again:

"Psalm 75:8! The Lord's anger is pictured as mixed wine poured out and drunk by the wicked!" She swung the hatchet in front of her, clearing a path through the surprised and drunken men and making her way towards the bar. Her eyes were fixed on the shelves of alcohol bottles behind the bar, and Arthur immediately knew what she was doing.

"No!" he yelled at her. He threw himself in front of the bottles, trying to salvage at least a few from the upcoming destruction, but it was too late. The woman was already within range of the shelf, and with a mighty heave of the hatchet, she swung at the shelves, shattering bottles and sending broken glass flying. Arthur ducked and shielded his eyes. "Stop it! What are you doing?!"

The woman didn't respond in a sensible way, instead shouting more verses. "Isaiah 28:3! Proud drunkards shall be trodden down! Proverbs 23:21! Drunkenness causes poverty!" She swung the hatchet again, taking out the rest of the bottles. Shards of glass rained down, and alcohol splashed onto the floor. His best ale, his most expensive whiskey, all wasted and dripping into the floorboards. His customers were running out in fear, screaming as they went. Anger and despair boiled beneath Arthur's skin, and he grabbed the woman by the arm.

"Are you completely mad?" he shouted at her. "The only one causing poverty is you! That was my most expensive alcohol you just ruined!"

"Habakkuk 2:15! Woe to him that gives his neighbor drink!" the woman yelled in response, snatching her arm back in a bout of incredible strength. Arthur stumbled and fell to the floor, catching himself with his hands, but also cutting his palms on the sharp glass that littered the ground. The woman slammed the hatchet into the wooden shelves one more time before running out of the bar, Bible and hatchet raised over her head, and shouting more verses at the top of her lungs.

Arthur could only sit on the floor in shock. His bar was empty. His alcohol was destroyed. His hands were cut up and bleeding, his clothes getting soaked from the liquid still dripping from what remained of the shelves. Everything he had worked for over the past ten years was gone, soaking into the floor and his clothes. Everything he had worked for, lost in fewer than five minutes because of some wench with a Bible and a hatchet.

For the first time since word of his brother's death, Arthur could do nothing. Nothing but let hopelessness consume him, and lie down on the floor to mourn the loss of his way of life.

A/N: My first historically accurate AU. "Carrie Nation Is a Crazy Bitch" was the original title, but I couldn't put that on here.

Some notes before continuing:

*If you think that meat these days is bad, you should read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. It was much worse. It gives a new meaning to the term "mystery meat." Arthur's brother fell into a vat of boiling meat about to go to the grinder and was boiled alive. He was likely left in there to be ground and packaged as canned meat. Yeah. Stuff like that happened.

**Many tavern-owners would brew their own alcohol in a bathtub in the back of the shop, using water and rat poison as filler to save money.

Recently my US History class has been on the topic of the Progressive Era. We talked about how people lived in large cities such as New York. It wasn't pretty, folks, let me tell you that.

The woman depicted in this story is called Carrie Nation. She was perhaps the most radical prohibitionist of the Progressive Era. She would go to random bars and smash all the alcohol in sight with a hatchet while reading verses from a Bible. I wanted to think about this from the point of view of a bartender or tavern owner. They would certainly be furious; devastated, even.

I'm gonna turn this in to my history teacher in an attempt to get extra credit :)