Prinz Eugen had always thought Germans are among the toughest people out there—until a trip to Chicago proved her wrong. Chicagoans are tougher than Germans, she begrudgingly acknowledged, if only because of that damned thing the Commander had her try. And since she, liqueur connoisseur extraordinaire, had the reputation as someone who could outdrink anyone at the port, she readily accepted despite finding the piss-like color somewhat off-putting. She soon knew why the Commander's smile looked so sly as she brought that shot glass to her lips.
"Welcome to Chicago," the Commander laughed, no doubt from that stupid face she couldn't help but make, a stark contrast to how confident she was just minutes before. That one shot of Jeppson's Malört was enough to fill her with regret. And that was probably the mildest way to describe the distinctively potent, jolting bitterness. Compared to it, absinthe and fernet tasted like harmless orange juice.
She soon learned many other ways to describe the taste, none flattering. One comedian described it as pencil shavings and heartbreak. Other descriptions ranged from motor oil to embalming fluid. She would also liken them to betrayal—because that's how she felt.
It was baffling to think that people were willingly subjecting themselves to such a nightmare. But bottles of it were everywhere, from respectable establishments to the seediest dive bars, for people looking to prove their drinking prowess or play a sadistic joke on the unwary—like her.
But if there's any consolation to be had from that experience, she guessed it'd be the fact she had passed a rite of passage. According to the Commander, anyway.
In the end, she bought a bottle—Hipper and Wales were in for a surprise.
