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Shrek downed yet another shot of liquor, and slammed the glass on the counter. He wiped his mouth and slurred out a request for another one. The bartender reluctantly obliged, a look of concern stained on her face.
"Oh, wipe that stupid fucking face off! I don't need you feeling fucking sorry for me; I do enough of that shit on my own!" his voice was a Scottish cocktail of slurring, shouting, and sadness.
The bartender pushed her electric blue hair out of her eyes and muttered something about not getting paid nearly enough for this, after sliding the alcohol towards the agitated ogre.
Stupid girl, Shrek thought She needs to mind his own goddamn business. She doesn't fucking know me. She doesn't fucking know my life. I bet that bitch wouldn't know pain if it looked her square in the eye, shook her hand, and said "Hey, nice to meet you ma’am, I'm pain." Life is fucking hard, man. Three kids (and an annoying ass equestrian best friend) really take a toll on you. You never have quiet time to yourself. I don't even remember the last time I had sex with my wife. Not to mention, my swamp is not the exquisitely beautiful, moist, odorous wasteland it once was, and I guess the land I’m living in is drying up too. Most of all, I feel lost. I'm supposed to be this big ole ogre who takes charge, and is confident about what he's doing. I'm not gonna lie to myself I have no fucking clue what I'm doing or who I am. I feel like something is missing, and I have no idea what it is, and I'm scared I'll never be fulfilled. Who could blame me for wanting to forget it all once a week?
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir." She replied to what Shrek thought was broody silence.
“Are you fucking psychic?"
"No, sir, you have just told the whole bar about your life problems."
"Well... Shit. I must be fucking wasted!" The drunk ogre awkwardly laughed with tears in his eyes—whether from sadness or laughing too hard was unbeknownst to Shrek himself. While he was distracted the bartender took back his untouched glass. Before Shrek could notice his missing beverage, he was distracted by the sudden voice of an angel.
"WAAAAH" a strapping young man in purple entered the premises with bountiful grace and beauty. His long legs made wide strides; one foot in front of the other with a strangely masculine elegance.
The cacophonous bar lulled to a reverent silence, as the man with godlike beauty moved closer towards the counter. Shrek’s eyes were glued to his divine presence. Shrek could practically see a spotlight on the mustached super model slowly strutting down a beer-stained catwalk. In the back of his mind, a thought brewed of what he looked like without his designer overalls.
Fuck. Don’t think that.
Shrek desperately hoped to any deity—that wasn’t the sex god in front of him—that he didn’t say that out loud. He tore his eyes from the stranger and gauged the bartender’s reaction. Her darkly-lined green eyes were expressionless, as she idly played with her lip piercing with her tongue. Shrek was safe.
At least he was for a solid minute.
“I’ll take one root beer, and don’t skimp on the beer part!” The mysterious stranger looked Shrek up and down and winked at him.
No, it couldn’t have been at him. Why would this tall, handsome brunette be checking him out. He was old. He was ugly. He smelled like alcohol and onions.
He was straight. He had a wife. He did not want to become involved with this strange man.
The bartender placed the frosty glass of root beer in front of the man in the purple hat. He gulped it down and let out a hearty “WAHAHAHAHAHA.” His laugh was highly contagious, and Shrek couldn’t help but chuckle. He smiled at him, and Shrek felt his stomach drop.
“Listen, cutie, I’ve seen you checking me out all night. Are we doing this or what?” He said, twiddling his mustache.
He looked just as good without his overalls on.