The bartender gave Atlas one of those long suffering looks that came from having a patron who seemed to be taking up space for no real reason. There was no reason for her to be so perturbed he had purchased a glass of fire whiskey upon arriving about an hour ago. He had thereby purchased the space he was now occupying for however long it took him to finish the drink. He hadn't started and he wouldn't, he had no idea where the Cauldron got its spirits from and there was no telling what sort of things might be lurking in it. He had purchased, there was no real social rule that then stated in order to maintain his seat he need also imbibe it.

So in response to the look leveled at him he merely glanced down at the glass, nudged it with an elbow and proceeded to go back to his inventory list. It had survived the explosion miraculously and now Atlas was in the course of attempting to reassemble what damages had been done and what exactly he had lost. Unfortunately there were a great many items within the index that he couldn't exactly claim on any of the official Ministry insurance forms. That and the person he had been put in contact didn't seem to think that a complete collection of every issue of The Weekly World News was worth anything, let alone the 700,000 galleons that Atlas had initially claimed. Peons.

He gave the glass another gentle nudge and hunkered down, rubbing at his eyes ruefully as they crossed over the column of potions ingredients. Why he had though it was a good idea to write them out in Hittite he couldn't quiet say.

"Rum and cola, please."

Artemius settled down on the bar, happy to be back in his own leather jacket. Soft cloths were a relief after a day of starchy Ministry uniform, and he took his drink happily. He took a good swig, letting it fill him up and he gave a grateful sigh. "Disgusting stuff. I'll have another, please." He downed the rest, letting the sweet alcohol mix with the fizzy cola. Very American, just like him. He was glad his dad wasn't here to see him.

Run and cola, please. The wood of the stool next to Atlas creaked distinctly as someone took a seat. He looked up from his notebook long enough to confirm what his nose had already more or less told him. Leather jacker, cropped hair, fairly young, he didn’t look threatening just sort of tired. The bar maid brought the ordered drink and Atlas watched the man slug the drought down with little preamble.

Disgusting stuff. I’ll have another please.

The bar maid took the glass, sparring Atlas a glare informing him very clearly that what he had just observed was the way that bar, drinker, and bar keep relations were supposed to progress. Then she was gone, refilling the glass before she set it down in front of the new comer again.

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Atlas piped up once she had drifted to the other end of the bar. “But if it’s so reprehensible why consume it?” There was only curiosity, layered with a degree of exhaustion to accompany his question. “They won’t tell me where the stuff comes from but I don’t trust those little bubbles.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.”

Artemius looked beside him to see a disgruntled looking wizard leaning over a notebook covered in writing. An untouched bottle of firewhiskey was at his hands. “But if it’s so reprehensible why consume it?”

Artemius beamed happily. "It's an excellent question, isn't it?" This time he stirred the drink -- she was being a bit heavy on the rum. Might want to slow down a bit.

His barmate continued. “They won’t tell me where the stuff comes from but I don’t trust those little bubbles.”

Artemius kept his grin. "I know how that is. Me dad used to travel a helluvua lot -- always made sure he got what he got straight from the brewers, or what have you. Folks like to trick tourists, you know. As for this mess..." he added, tilting his cup slightly. "Well. In a way, I need the alcohol, but I don't deserve any good stuff." He beamed. "That's a bit cryptic, though, innit?" He laughed. Three days, now, he came home from work and ordered a couple of these. They were still disgusting, and hella pricey, but it seemed like just desserts.

The man stirred his drink idly and Atlas watched the motion and also kept a mindful eye on the tiny bubbles that fizzled up. He had never really understood Muggle drinks. They, like many other things were rather confusing. He made a note to try and ask Margot about it when she was feeling up to answering inane questions for him. There was a possibility he might be able to ask the man next to him but ‘why do you enjoy oddly dirt colored beverages that fizzle in your stomach’ seemed like an off-putting way to begin a conversation.

I know how it is. Me dad used to travel a helluvua lot -- always made sure he got what he got straight from the brewers, or what have you. Folks like to trick tourists, you know. Atlas nodded with due reverence. It was paramount that people know where things came from, otherwise you were inviting all manner of trouble. One of Shirley’s oft used methods was to poison the water supply, the alcohol supply would be close behind.

Well. In a way, I need the alcohol, but I don't deserve any good stuff.

At this Atlas turned, itching at the bandages still wrapped around his right hand and took the time to observe the man more closely. He didn’t look particularly undeserving of what many in the working world referred to as ‘a nice cold one’. Appearance could very well be deceiving though. When he laughed one of Atlas’ eyebrows arched questioningly.

That’s a bit cryptic, though innit?

“A tad yes. But that could just be a result of some stray micro bacteria from the Muggle stuff in that. I read somewhere that it can be harnessed and used to control the mind should enough of it be ingested by its host.” The exact number of banana boats he had had in stock came to mind suddenly and he quickly jotted it down. “You don’t exactly look to be someone who deserves a mind flush at the hands of simple tonic beverage. Lots of people indulge.” He waved a hand to encompass the room. “As you can see from the booming business they seem to be doing tonight.”

“A tad yes. But that could just be a result of some stray micro bacteria from the Muggle stuff in that."

Artemius raised his eyebrow at that, his smiling becoming more amused than self-ridiculing.

"I read somewhere that it can be harnessed and used to control the mind should enough of it be ingested by its host.” He would have laughed, had it not been so absurd.

"Huh," was his only reply as he casually picked the cup up, looking into it curiously.

The fellow jotted something down. "As it is, you don’t exactly look to be someone who deserves a mind flush at the hands of simple tonic beverage. Lots of people indulge.” He waved a hand to encompass the room. “As you can see from the booming business they seem to be doing tonight.”

Artemius looked about. The Cauldron was still not quite half-full, but people were still trickling in. The after-dinner rush was coming.

"I have to say -- bacteria would be a rather ingenius way of doing mind control, if one wanted to do it." Artemius was somewhat amused, he had to admit. "But I drink this stuff, not purely because it's fizzy and disgusting, but because of what it symbolizes," he explained. "You see, the cola, a kind of soda, is a very stereotypical American drink -- it's insanely expensive on this side of the pond, because no one drinks it. If we're going to poison ourselves, it's with bacteria, as you so brilliantly pointed out, versus sugar, which is absolutely riddled in this stuff. Americans can't afford to be drunk, however, because they're work-a-holics. So they drink this stuff for the rush and energy; soda companies know this and take advantage of this, resulting in Americans being so fat." He grinned. "I have a theory about this. The rum, on the other hand, is stereotypically symbolic of pirates, who likewise, do things just for money's sake, and are quite often villianous, treacherous, mutinous, scurvy bastards who would rape you as soon as look at you, for their own sadistic pleasure. And then rob you of all of your gold." He began to chuckle again. "I don't deserve good alcohol. This money robbing and bad taste is my penance. It's incentive for me to go get a real job, versus the soul slavery I've signed myself up for." Artemius took another swig of the nasty stuff and ordered another.

There was a glint of amusement in the man’s eyes that Atlas was well used to seeing in people. They never seemed to understand that he was completely serious about the mind controlling bacteria, and the yetis (who were claiming more and more victims everyday), or the flying stingrays. Then the man launched into an explanation that was less conspiracy theory, or even gentle warning and much more of a philosophical rambling. Atlas paid attention as best he could, eyes going between the drink and the other man’s eyes absorbing and processing all the information being presented to him. Filing it away where he felt there was something he might like to look over again sometime.

I don't deserve good alcohol. This money robbing and bad taste is my penance. It's incentive for me to go get a real job, versus the soul slavery I've signed myself up for.

“Must be something horrible.” Atlas concluded, snaking one hand out to grab at a bowl of peanuts to his left. Once the delicious items were in front of them he popped on or two into his mouth before adding a few to his fire whiskey, swirling the liquid around before setting it back on the counter top. “To have such a thought out way of punishing yourself. You might invest in a whip.” He mimed the motion of penance over one shoulder. “Some people find it very cathartic…and you mind find it to be less expensive. Though not if you filthy your clothes along with it…. And not including any of the hospital fees if something were to become infected.”

Having thought it out maybe it wasn’t the best idea and he turned back to tell him so. “Might be best to stick with your current choice. What exactly do you do that’s so reprehensible?”

“Must be something horrible,” the fellow replied, taking a couple peanuts, dropping some of them into his otherwise untouched drink. “To have such a thought out way of punishing yourself. You might invest in a whip.”

Artemius laughed out loud as the mate mimed the motion of penance over one shoulder. “Some people find it very cathartic…and you mind find it to be less expensive."

"Oh god..." Artemius couldn't keep laughing. "That's definitely a more direct way of doing it, isn't it?" He laughed, shaking his head -- mainly at himself, versus the fellow's honest suggestion.

"Though not if you filthy your clothes along with it…. And not including any of the hospital fees if something were to become infected." He turned back to tell him so. “Might be best to stick with your current choice. What exactly do you do that’s so reprehensible?”

Artemius couldn't help seeing himself trying to buy a whip and trying to explain to some poor old witch that he needed a severe beating. The sexual connotations just wouldn't quit. It shouldn't have been nearly as funny as it was.

"As it is..." Artemius sighed. "I have sold my soul to the Ministry of Magic," he replied softly. "The beaureacratic bastards that have been the bane of my existence since before I was born, and I now work for them as a wage slave." He looked at his barmate. "Isn't that something?" It was pathetic, was what it was. He laughed bitterly at himself again as he sipped the disgusting drink.

The sinning man laughed and Atlas allowed himself to think of that as progress. Thats definitely a more direct way of doing it isn't it? Atlas nodded his head. Certainly more direct but he supposed it would be slightly more painful. Depended on the whip really though and the persons arm strength. The man quieted down after a moment, sighing as he hunkered back down around his drink protectively.

As it is... I have sold my soul to the Ministry of Magic. The bureaucratic bastards that have been the bane of my existence since before I was born, and I now work for them as a wage slave. Isn't that something?

The laugh came back but now it was bitter as he took another hearty swig of his drink and Atlas looked him over again. Properly this time. No uniform and it was unlikely that the man was any sort of high ranking official. Wage slave did enough to confirm that really. “Sign your contract in blood did you?”

Artemius grinned. "I wouldn't say blood, but my options are rather few at the moment. Family business got burned down during the dreaded week, if you catch my drift," he explained. "The insurance money from my father's own fortune to pass on from this is keeping us up to date with our loan payments, but with one less breadwinner and debts still present, I'd say the Ministry will have a knife ready should they need it for their pound of flesh."

Another bitter grin. "I'm just hoping I can get something to extend the misery as long as possible before the hammer finally falls," he added, gesturing violently with a fist, but taking care not to bang the table -- no need to trouble others who were enjoying their night.

"So, I have my penance, until the shackles that bind me either kill me, or wither away when there's nothing left to take." Like a boa constrictor didn't always eat its victims -- the system would crush the life and soul out of him, then leave him for dust before moving on -- there were always bigger fish to fry.

"If I'm lucky, my mother will work herself to death meanwhile, and be spared the destruction." It was a horrible thing to say, but he'd just gotten his first bill from the Ministry in regards to the loan on the cottage as the Baxby Patriarch -- his mother had already gone in for the office at the time. To think that they owed that much gold... It was no wonder his dad was always out of town, trying to find another patrons to keep them afloat.

Still... that was pretty harsh stuff to say. He peered at the glass. She really was putting the rum on heavy tonight. He wondered if maybe she had a plan to turned his rum and cola into a rum spiked with cola, and then just straight rum. That's what it was tasting like. Maybe she had a crush on him. He peered suspisciously at the bartender, who was busy with something else, then looked to the fellow. "Sorry," he admitted. "I'm feeling very much like a tiny bug under a falling shoe, if you know what I mean. And I think the 'tender is being a bit too friendly on the rum." He pushed his glass forward, deciding to order something non-alcoholic next. Maybe tea. Earl Grey sounded good at the moment...