I gave the silver shaker a final jolt before pouring the clear liquid into a martini glass. I then garnished the cocktail with two plump olives. Undoubtedly, my finest work yet.
The humanoid sat across the bar. It placed the tip of its finger into the chilled glass.
“Too much vermouth,” it immediately informed me.
The resulting shock from my training bolt was quick but intense. I grunted, rubbing my neck. How much more could I take?
I grabbed the shaker and the half-empty bottle of gin, ready to make another go.
Maybe the seventh time would be the charm.
The Weekday One Hundred 