The Intrepid Jim Beam

In the wild reaches of outer outer space, on the water planet of Kazoo, there floats a seedy space saloon full of space denizens of ill space repute. A stranger in a space poncho pushes the swinging wooden space doors inward, letting them rattle behind him as he approaches the bar. Many eyes subtly peer up at him from the various patrons over their space cards and space booze, scrutinizing the newcomer, gauging his mettle. Upon reaching the bar, he leans forward onto its polished wooden surface and waits for the space bartender to acknowledge him. Most of the crowd grow bored of staring at him after a few seconds, and he begins to blend into the scene as if he’d always been there. The space bartender finally walks up.

A sleep-deprived man in a damp white dress shirt and a drab bowtie, he squeezes the end of a space glass with a towel and twists it steadily with his other hand. With a cough, he drawls, “Name’s Don Blasterman, what can I get for ya?”

“Bourbon,” the stranger mutters, pointing to a large bottle several feet back from the space bartender. He picks the bottle up and wipes some of the space dust and grime away, its label long faded to illegibility. With a shrug, he pops it open and pours a shot into the glass he’d been cleaning.

As he slid the glass down the space bar to the stranger, Blasterman remarked, “I’m surprised by your choice there, friend. I don’t think even I remember what was in that bottle.”

The stranger turned the space glass in his space fingers, and said with a bitter sentimentality, “I’d know that bottle anywhere. I have a history with it.”

Another patron at the bar turned and added, “Besides, Blasterman, you barely remember what you had for space lunch.”

“Now you hush up, Johnny Craterhead, or I’ll be cuttin’ you off for the night,” commented the tired space bartender, finding yet another space glass to clean.

“So what brings you out here to this miserable speck of dirty space water we call Kazoo, stranger,” Craterhead rasped. “Business?”

“Opportunity,” mumbled the stranger.

“Hah, I’m afraid old Jenson Quasar’s mine has all but dried up, ironically, and Meteor Mikey’s gang ran most of the enterprising space businesses out of town,” he chuckled gruffly.

“Kazoo’s just a stop on my way to the planet Gabba in the Mehbula System.”

“Gabba?!” sputtered Craterhead, “Now what in the space hell are you doing there?”

“I heard there’s a secret vault on Gabba, once,” said Blasterman without looking up from his squeaking glass. “Supposed to be full of brown gold, they say.”

“Brown gold?” asked Craterhead incredulously.

“Space coffee beans. Special ones, from a tree once at the center of a dwarf star,” the space bartender whispered. “Locked away, for fear of them falling into the hands of anyone who would misuse them. Only the true heir can get to them.”

“True heir?”

The stranger downed his shot, slamming the empty space glass back onto the counter, and with a wild grin answered, “And I’m on my way!”

Craterhead blinked twice and sputtered, “Just who the hell are you?”

The stranger smirked and turned from the bar counter, tossing a couple bitcoins over his shoulder to the space bartender, who stumbled to catch them. “Name’s James Beam.” By the time Blasterman had regained his balance, Beam had already walked off. And even though he’d nearly crossed the establishment and opened the wooden space doors again, the pair at the bar caught his parting words on the hazy space air, “Thanks for the bourbon, Don.”