Irish Oni Bomb

“Another one down. NEXT!”

The bar was packed to the brim. Everything smelled of sweat and testosterone. Dozens of military grunts lined the walls, cheering and grunting. In the middle, a single table that miraculously survived the earlier fistfight. Around that table, 3 passed out men and a single massive Oni. Unruly shoulder length white hair, deep crimson red skin, fiery orange eyes, voluptuous breasts and enough muscles to beat you to death with your own leg if you try to touch them uninvited.

You see, Sasha there is a regular here. She’s the reason I keep a healthy business. Onis can drink. A lot. But I was never quite sure how much exactly. Suffice to say that she probably spends most of her wages on the liquor here. Every saturday she sits down with me and we discuss what I am going to order or import. Come to think of it, I don’t even really have to run this bar. She does it all by herself. I asked her a year ago if she’d like to start working for me, but all I got was a grin and a pat on my head.

“Bartender! Bring us more!”

“Hold your horses, coming right up!”

Lifting another set of 2 liter mugs, I make my way through the crowd and replace the empty glasses on the middle table. Sasha shoots me a wink and immediately grabs the first one. The guys earlier who passed out drunk were already carried outside by their mates and 3 more burly marines sit down, reaching for the booze. They look confident at least. God have mercy on them. Sasha won’t.

So about an hour ago, all these grunts came pouring in unexpectedly. About two platoons of sweaty marines in big boots, camo pants and open shirts. Some sergeant is getting married or whatever. Customers are customers and I’m not gonna complain about a business opportunity. Sasha didn’t either. But one does not simply park his butt next to Sasha, order 3 kegs of beer and not get his ass grabbed. Turns out the bloke she manhandled was said sergeant.

Then the bar erupted. 2 platoons versus Sasha. It wasn’t a contest, it was a slaughter. All those guys along the walls watching the drinking contest? Not a single one of them without either a black eye or other various bruises. Sasha isn’t military but she works hard for a living. She works at a cargo terminal, unloading those heavy ass freight containers. With her hands, mind you. Anyway, the boys realized they wouldn’t win and offered a ceasefire. Sasha countered by offering a drinking contest. Terms are that she would drink every single one of their sorry asses under the table in a row. If the guys win, she’d pay for the whole wedding. If she wins, she’d get to screw every single one of em.

I hear her slamming her mug on the table with a satisfied belch. That was 2 liters of double loaded Irish Car Bomb. Time to pour some more I guess.

The soldier closest to the bar turns around and mutters, “Hey, how much can that monster drink?”.
I shrug and pat him on the back. “Son, I hope you don’t have a whiskey dick.”
He curses and turns around to watch one contestant try to stand up and fall over his own chair.

“Ahahahahaha! NEXT!”

Ah yes. Business is good.

Irish Car Bomb (recipe)
2 liters of stout beer
4 shots of irish cream
4 shots of irish whiskey
Drink quickly because the cream will curdle

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