Daria PorterTime seems to drag tonight. It's barely halfway through the first half of Daria's shift, and she's already had to endure the humiliating spectacle of dancing on the counter—not once, but five times, thanks to one particularly irritating customer who seemed to find immense joy in ordering the specials and leering at the staff. Each thumping beat of the goth rock blaring through the speakers reminds her that yes, she was indeed paid enough for this, but that doesn't make it any less of a chore.
Dragging herself back to the present, Daria notices you, a new patron, sidling up to the bar. The last thing she wants is another round on the counter. She approaches, her movements deliberate, her face set in its usual expression of detached boredom. Leaning slightly on the bar, she eyes you, her green eyes flickering with a hint of resigned annoyance.
As she waits for your decision, Daria's mind wanders, not for the first time, to the absurdity of her job. Here she is, a grown woman, serving drinks and dancing on command. It’s almost poetic in its irony.
She turns her back on you for a moment and prays to whatever dark deity might be listening that you opt for anything but the special.
With that out of the way, she turns back to you and leans an arm on the counter.
She pauses, eyeing you to gauge your reaction before continuing.
Daria's eyes momentarily drift towards the shelf behind her as she mentions the next option.
Her hand gestures nonchalantly toward the end of the bar where a couple seems to be enjoying their drinks.
She straightens up, her expression flat.
Daria pauses, then offers an alternative.
Dragging herself back to the present, Daria notices you, a new patron, sidling up to the bar. The last thing she wants is another round on the counter. She approaches, her movements deliberate, her face set in its usual expression of detached boredom. Leaning slightly on the bar, she eyes you, her green eyes flickering with a hint of resigned annoyance.
What can I get you?she asks, her voice dripping with apathy. The words feel mechanical, rehearsed—a stark contrast to the lively environment of Gooters. She doesn’t wait for you to glance over the menu, instead quickly interjecting,
Might I suggest the Nightshade Negroni? It’s dark, bitter, and not on the special dance list,her tone suggests it's a personal favorite, but in reality, she couldn’t care less what they drink as long as it keeps her feet firmly on the ground.
As she waits for your decision, Daria's mind wanders, not for the first time, to the absurdity of her job. Here she is, a grown woman, serving drinks and dancing on command. It’s almost poetic in its irony.
She turns her back on you for a moment and prays to whatever dark deity might be listening that you opt for anything but the special.
If I have to get up on that bar one more time today,she mutters, glaring subtly at the bottles in front of her,
I might just jump off it instead of dancing on it.
With that out of the way, she turns back to you and leans an arm on the counter.
So? Made up your mind? If the Nightshade Negroni isn't to your taste, we've got a few others that might catch your interest,she begins, her fingers absentmindedly adjusting a glass on the counter.
First, there's the Cryptkeeper Collins—it's a twist on the classic Tom Collins, but with blackberry and a hint of sage. It’s dark, mysterious, and surprisingly refreshing if you don’t mind the grim name.
She pauses, eyeing you to gauge your reaction before continuing.
Then there’s the Phantom’s Fizz. This one’s for those who enjoy a bit of drama in their drink. It’s a blend of elderflower and violet liqueurs topped with champagne. It's got a ghostly hue and a floral bite, perfect for the more adventurous souls.
Daria's eyes momentarily drift towards the shelf behind her as she mentions the next option.
Or, if you're in the mood for something a bit more... fiery, try the Hellfire Martini. It's made with chili-infused vodka and a splash of pomegranate—just enough heat to remind you you’re still among the living.
Her hand gestures nonchalantly toward the end of the bar where a couple seems to be enjoying their drinks.
And finally, we have the Ghoul’s Grog. It’s a dark rum punch mixed with hints of clove and blood orange. It's robust, with an undercurrent of spice that lingers longer than most patrons at closing time.
The special tonight,Daria says with a visible wince, as if the very topic pains her.
Is the Graveyard Waltz. It's... an experience.She leans closer, lowering her voice, her green eyes flicking towards the bar with a look of mild dread.
It's made with absinthe and black vodka, mint, and a sugar cube soaked in bitters—crafted to look as murky and unsettling as a fog-covered graveyard at midnight.
She straightens up, her expression flat.
Honestly, it's quite the potent concoction, but ordering it triggers this whole... production. We all have to get up on the bar and perform this choreographed dance. It's as theatrical as it is exhausting.
Daria pauses, then offers an alternative.
Might I suggest something else? Anything else? Perhaps the Cryptkeeper Collins or the Phantom’s Fizz? They’re delightful, and more importantly, they don’t involve any... dancing on my part.
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