Where Everybody Knows Your Name
Resisting the urge to tug at the collar of his best suit (something that a lot of these hoity-toity rich folk wouldn't have used for cleaning rags, let alone worn), Moe did his best to make a non-creepy smile as he tended bar at one of the many "Dome Survival" parties that had popped up over the last few months. Most of them had been raucous affairs as they let out nervous energy after the stress of being trapped like rats for so long, but this one was different. This one had been organized by several of Springfield's richest as they celebrated the fact that all their wealth wasn't completely worthless any more (in his humble opinion anyway).
Ordinarily he wouldn't have been caught dead at a place like this, too rich for his blood and then some even without the smug looks from every other jackass who he could see and feel looking down on him. Not like his tavern, where everyone knew that no one was better than anyone else, and people actually worked for a living. But near the end of it all his tavern had taken damage that made even the rats decide that they could do better, and if he was going to keep the business going then he needed to make nice with these rich fucks for at least this one night.
It wasn't all bad of course; it had been long enough since the bar had opened that people were starting to dip into actual drunkenness and that meant better tips as they stopped being able to tell bills apart. And Dr Hibbert had stopped by early on, giving him a quick nod and a fairly generous tip for just a pair of martinis.
As far as Moe was concerned, the doc was one of the only rich guys here who was good in his book. Back when supplies at the hospital had started running low the man had come to him with an offer; Hibbert had gotten a spare generator, some fuel, and even a few shotgun shells discreetly delivered to the Tavern's back door, and Moe had provided the hospital with cheap, sterilizing alcohol from his personal still. It had been a good deal for them both, and Moe was almost sad to see it end.
"Hey, you look familiar…" Moe inwardly groaned as his thoughts were interrupted, plastering a smile on his face as he turned to see which drunk was just
so sure that the bartender was someone he knew and resigned himself to dealing with some wackadoo's attention for the next few minutes. "You own the bar my son likes so much don't you?"
Moe instinctively straightened his back as he realized that it wasn't just any rich ass talking to him, but the city's newest rich ass; Abe Simpson himself. "Mr Simpson!" He nervously put his hands on the bar, not wanting to piss off someone who could so easily ruin his life…More than usual anyway. Of course he was here; on the one hand Simpson had been a nobody before his newfound wealth, but on the other you couldn't
not invite the richest man in town to your fancypants shindig. "W-What can I get for you?" He'd heard a fair number of rumors about just how his second-best customer's old man had gotten his wrinkled hands on Burns' wealth, and while he didn't
really think Abe had performed an elaborate heist to steal the former billionaire's soul jar to put him in his power, he also didn't know that he
didn't. So he was going to put a little extra effort into this one.
Meanwhile Abe was squinting at him a bit, and if Moe hadn't known that he hadn't served the old man yet tonight he'd have thought he was already drunk. "Yeah, that's definitely you," he continued, one hand gripping his cane while the other one's fingers started tapping on the bar, "Well, I've heard a few things about you from my son. How about we start off the night with a Flaming Moe?"
Moe gulped at that, recalling the drink that the man's son had invented and he had stolen credit for. Was this a test of some kind? "Do you mean a Flaming Homer?" The bartender nervously asked, to which Abe replied with a sort of 'if you like' gesture, and Moe got to work.
Sadly the company that had made the cough syrup that went into the original drink had gone under years ago, so to most people this would have been an impossible ask. But one night, long after that had happened, Moe had gotten it in his head to make a drink that did basically the same thing without it. It had been tricky, and he'd gone through so many bottles of booze in the process, but eventually he'd gotten it right.
Moe started bringing out the bottles he'd need while Abe continued to look at him. Absinthe, grenadine, chambord…As he was bringing out the bottle of Canadian rye he'd been saving for a special occasion Abe spoke up again. "You never answered my question, what're you doing in a den of vipers like this?"
The bartender started mixing the booze together, the motions easy thanks to literal years of practice despite his nervousness (he might not be worth much as a human being, but he was a damn good bartender if he said so himself) as he thought of something to say. "Well you know how it is; with everything that's been going on I figured I could pick up a little extra cash to fix up my hole in the wall until it's nice enough that the rats come back."
Abe gave a neutral hum at that. "Gotta do what you can to survive," he commented as Moe started slicing a lime, and it occurred to him that for all the old man's faults (that his son had more than once announced to the whole bar after a few Duffs) this was a man who had worked for a living, not just been handed his money like the other scabs here. "A lot of that going around these days."
Finishing the mixture, Moe cracked some ice over the shaker and began mixing it together. After a few seconds of that a thought occurred to him and he reached under the bar, grabbing a real mug he'd brought from his bar for good luck. He had a few brand new ones on the counter behind him of course in case anyone had wanted one for their drink, but of course no one here would stoop to such a low class way of drinking. Pouring it in, he then grabbed the lime boat he'd made, stuck a pair of sugar cubes on top, doused it all in lemon extract and placed it in the mug before grabbing a book of matches and setting it all alight. Tossing a bit of cinnamon on top for that extra kick, and it was ready "Your drink sir," Moe began, feeling his heart pounding in his chest as Abe eyed the concoction.
"Well, it certainly looks good," he began, and Moe could feel the sweat forming at the back of his neck as Abe picked up the mug in his free hand. "Bottom's up." And with that, Abe blew out the flame and began to drink it down, smacking his lips in a way that was incredibly familiar to the bartender. There was a moment of silence that to Moe seemed to last years, but was probably only seconds in reality before the wealthy old geezer gave him a grin. "Not too shabby young man!" And with that he reached into his wallet, grabbed a few bills and put them in the tip jar. "A little something to help you out with that bar of yours." And with that Abe ambled off to do whatever it was rich people did at these parties.
Before Moe could do more than let out a brief sigh of relief he suddenly had a crowd of people around his bar, more at once than he'd had all night. "I'll have whatever it was you made him," one called out, a sentiment that was echoed by everyone else as they clamored for his attention, eager to drink whatever it was the richest man in town had liked just in case they could use it to get close to him. Moe could only nervously grin as he started mixing up another batch as hands full of bills started to wave in front of his face. "Alright, don't worry folks, I've got plenty of Flaming Homers for all of you right here!"
Hours later, his bones aching like they hadn't in years as he slumped into a ratty old armchair in his apartment, Moe took the tip jar out and looked at the stuffed glassware with no small amount of awe. Over the course of a few hours he'd probably made more just from tips than he had in some years as a bartender! He overturned it, letting the bills fall out like leaves from a tree and started to dig through it all until he found the cash Abe had stuffed in there. As he looked at the handful of bills there were only two thoughts in Moe Szyslak's head.
"I didn't even know they made five-hundreds!" And a moment later, "And who the hell is William McKinley?"
Technically the US doesn't make $500 bills any more, but they did at one point, and McKinley was one of several dead presidents whose face could be found on them. Gotta figure Burns would've had at least a few around for kleenex or similar purposes, and it amuses me a little to have them end up in the hands of a guy as blue-collar (if he could afford collars anyway) guy like Moe.
Also, the video that inspired this was
this one, which appeared in my list of recommended videos on youtube a few hours ago and, with the potential arrival of Moe to our roster soon, I figured it was as good a time as any to make something with him.