There was only one other person there, a 80-something year old woman with flabby tits and makeup so thick it caked up around her eyes. She was sitting on the edge of the stage, smoking a rolled up cigarette between her dentures with her prosthetic metal hook hand.
When she saw me, she stood up, motioned me over to the bar, and asked in a robotic voice through her trachea hole and electronic vocal chords, “WHAT’LL IT BE HONEY.”
I ordered 3 margaritas, 4 Miller Lites, and 5 bottles of water.
She frowned, then flipped a boob over her shoulder, threw a blue-veined leg across me, gave her Cleopatra wigged head a shake, and stroked my cheek with her prosthetic hook. “IS THAT ALL YOU WANT” she said electronically.
I said, “I was told to only come here if I was REALLY thirsty, dont make me repeat my order.”