Rick Altergott
After months of bartending at a popular music club in downtown Seattle, I had grown weary of "frat shows." I'm sure you've accidentally stumbled into one. They consist of disingenuous Dave Matthews-style or white bread hiphop/metal bands playing to a sea of backwards baseball caps with a manifest-destiny agenda of fights, pussy, and ridiculous inebriation.

One night, one of them grunted, "Make it a good one, Bro," blatantly following it up with no tip and weaving away from the bar with a retarded sorority counterpart in tow. Fueled by a highly functional combination of Guinness and black coffee, the forces of benevolence revealed to me the path of perfect revenge. As a seasoned bartender, I found the Visine Solution (wherein you add eye drops to a cocktail, causing its consumer a rude case of the runs) too rudimentary for this situation. I looked deeper into exactly what I was trying to accomplish with this administration of just desserts. I would poison the bastard--to death--with alcohol. Fuck him and his privilege. Besides, the sheer volume of dope smoked by the club's owner nullified the "pour-cost quotient" governing most bartenders. The law, too, was on my side--or at least not against me. These idiots always traveled in packs and never got DUIs anyway.

Each time the well-bred fuckface came to me for a Surfer on Acid, I made sure it was the gnarliest, most potent version of the already disgusting concoction I could push across the bar. The Malibu and Jgermeister gurgled obscenely, winding up in an amply poured rocks glass instead of the customary shot glass. As such, each round raised the imaginary drunkenness bar he was incapable of clearing, and each time I was rewarded by, you guessed it--no tip and some kind of stupid click-click of the tongue, a wink, or a head nod. Like I'm a fucking horse. In a sense, I guess I was, because I was trying to kick him in the head.

Finally he disappeared. I was on shift, and was unworried about the fate that had befallen this arrogant, no-tipping asshole.

A while later, one of the bussers on shift came to the bar with some "alarming" news. A man had collapsed on the floor of the men's room. This was a rock club's men's room, shared by an adjoining Laundromat, and was, in a word, "neglected." It was frequently used to smoke crack and bathe in. This night, the floor was covered in an inch of Red Bull & Vodka urine.

I rejoiced, secretly.

I had made right that which had been wronged. Feeling a minor pang of responsibility, I got the barback to relieve me, went to the Laundromat, and retrieved a laundry cart. I wheeled it back to the men's room, carefully avoiding the sullying of my clothes, and piled deadboy into the cart. Breathing, he wasn't actually dead, just extremely fucked up. Severe alcohol poisoning, I deduced. Joined by his lamenting girlfriend and a wasted buddy, his next destination was the sidewalk outside. I went in, called him an ambulance, and went back to work. That night I rested peacefully knowing that I had indeed "Made it a good one, Bro."