Published on TF.N in Spring 2005.
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"Why the hell is whiskey so expensive nowadays?"
The bar is the kind of place that spacers on long term trips go after they finally get to port. It's the kind of place where it's easy to pick a fight, get a girl, and buy cheap alcohol. Well, except for Corellian whiskey, of course.
"Well?"
The spacer got into town and went straight for the heavy stuff – double-duty Whyren's reserve. After an entire bottle, he's on the edge of alcohol poisoning. He is also very belligerent, and he has the muscles and calluses of an engineer – a really hands-on engineer. The bartender sighs and moves over to the counter by the drunk, gripping the blaster under the counter and snapping the safety switch.
"How long you been on planet, mister?"
Swaying, the spacer pokes a finger into the bartender's chest.
"That's Chief Engineer Kyront of the Merren to you, buddy. Now tell me why whiskey is so kriffin' expensive!"
The bartender grimaces internally. A verbose, semi-lucid, and stubborn drunk. The worst kind, in his opinion. Might as well humor him. Maybe he'll go away afterward. Not likely, of course, but it could happen.
"Whiskey is so expensive these days because of the whiskey taxes."
The drunk's bleary eyes focus on him.
"Whiskey taxes?"
He's thickheaded, too…
"Yeah, whiskey taxes. The Corellian government slapped a big tax on whiskey to pay for better healthcare coverage or something stupid like that. To make up for it, every bartender who buys direct has to pay double. To make a profit, we have to price it even higher. Understand?"
The drunk thinks about it for a moment, and then his blood-shot eyes focus on the bartender.
"You made it more expensive!"
Oh, boy. He's getting angry. Transference, of course. The Corellian government isn't here, so he'll take his anger out on me instead.
The drunkard draws himself up and roars, swinging wildly at the bartender and missing him every time, even though he is standing still.
And with the practiced motion of a professional, the bartender draws the blaster out from the bar and shoots the drunk point blank in the head. He drops to the ground like a deadweight, the tell-tale flashes of electricity evidence of stunning.
"Hey, Jarven! Drag this sorry soul to the Merren, 'kay!"
Angry mumbling.
"You'll do it because I asked you to and you have a bill at this bar longer than my arm!"
Angrier mumbling.
"You ready to pay right now, lunkhead? No? Then get a move on!"
The bartender puts the blaster under the counter.