“Hey there, pal,” said Jack as he sat at the bar. “Whiskey, two fingers.”

  The bartender nodded. A seasoned pro, he immediately pegged Jack as a working man winding down after a hard day. Huge hands, calloused, veins like cords, soot under trimmed nails, faint marks from a face mask—coal miner. A wedding ring, worn not out of sentiment but obligation—meaning the wife’s a tough one, but runs a tight ship. Well-patched clothes, clean haircut. His normally cheerful face was lately often grim. The bartender had never seen him before, and judging by his reaction to the prices, never would again. He dubbed him “The Laborer.”

  “Tough day?” the bartender asked.

  “Damn right,” the miner muttered.

  “On the house,” the bartender said, surprising even himself.

  The man nodded gratefully and took a small sip.

  The bartender returned to his tasks. He wasn’t a shrink, but he knew who needed an ear, who wanted a word, and who just needed to be left alone.

  Suddenly, another man stormed in—loud, hefty, and mean-spirited in a gleeful way. Not the kind to start a fight, but definitely one to provoke. Somewhere between an obnoxious sales rep and a petty bank clerk. The bartender internally labeled him “The Scumbag.” And he’d need someone to talk to. Unfortunately, he chose the Laborer.

  “Bartender, your best drink, splash of apple juice. And get this guy whatever he’s having,” he clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Tough day, huh? Well, it’s all over soon. Johnny’s got you covered. What’s your name, pal?”

  “Jack,” replied the Laborer flatly.

  The bartender placed their drinks in front of them.

  “Drink up, Jackie boy. This is your last chance,” said Johnny, draining his glass. “Not just you—everyone.”

  The bartender, without waiting for a second order, quickly whipped up "Sludge Number Two," as he called the whiskey with apple juice, and placed it in front of John.

  “They bringing back Prohibition or something?” the bartender tried to steer the Scumbag's attention toward himself.

  “Hahaha!” Johnny laughed even harder. “No. Just the end. The end of your world is coming, pops!” He turned back to the Laborer.

  “Know what I mean?”

  “Communists attacking?” the bartender kept going, unfazed.

  “Worse! Reptilians!” Johnny nearly fell off his stool from laughing.

  Now other patrons were starting to turn their heads.

  “Reptilians aren’t real!” shouted one of the students, and his friends burst out laughing.

  “Reptilians, Wanderers, Aliens, Predators... What difference does it make to you? You won’t even see them coming. No planetary defenses, no early warning satellites on the system’s edge. They’ll sneak in from the sun’s direction—your telescopes barely look there. And even if you see them, believe them, and understand what’s coming—you’re too slow. They won’t even land. They’ll blast from orbit, give you an ultimatum, install a temporary government, and your own soldiers will chain you up.”

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  “And our nukes won’t stop them?” the bartender asked, genuinely curious. “Couldn’t we blow everything up just so they don’t get it? What’s that thing... Dead Hand?”

  “Won’t matter. They won’t care. You surrender—they get the planet. You blow it up—they wait a bit, glass the surface, and drop in other slaves. Same mines, different people. You don’t have a chance. You’re screwed.”

  “And what about you?” the bartender asked while mixing another glass of “Sludge #2.”

  “Me? I’m no fool. I’m not sticking around for the invasion. I’ve done my part. Found you lot. Assessed your tech level. Confirmed no damn Observer Council agents around. And those morons! Sent a probe into space with your coordinates! Good thing I intercepted it. Couldn’t even find this planet in the registries! If you’d kept quiet, you’d have been fine. But now I’m gonna be rich!” Johnny laughed again. “You know how much the miners pay for tips on coal-rich planets?”

  “What, Bitcoin miners?” the students jeered.

  “No, miners—as in mines, digging.”

  “So coal miners?” the Laborer suddenly chimed in. “Intergalactic? Why would they come for Earth if every rock in the Asteroid Belt is a goldmine for metals? It’s economically pointless,” he added, a little quieter.

  “Who said anything about metals? They don’t want metals. They want coal. And coal only comes from places with plant life. Those planets are rare. Most are already claimed. Some even have intelligent species—like yours.”

  “Coal!?” the bikers howled. “You telling us their starships run on coal!?”

  “Nah, fashion trends. Galactic demand for organic pigments. Coal’s the purest black dye. Worth a fortune,” Johnny slurred. “But what does it matter to you idiots what they’re killing you for? You’re already butchering each other over nonsense. Genocides in the name of mercy and love, slashing throats and guts. Living on a tiny rock and poisoning each other. Bombing your own planet with dirty weapons. Brother against brother...”

  “Watch your mouth,” said an elderly, silver-bearded biker who’d been silent until now. “We bombed gooks. They weren’t our brothers.”

  The students, previously laughing, also fell quiet. Their coal-black eyes bored into Johnny’s back.

  “And as for feasibility,” Johnny went on, “your ancestors had plenty of land and gold back in the Old World, but they still crossed oceans. And these days, interstellar flights aren’t even expensive. For them, it’s like you launching a satellite.”

  “So you’re not human, then?” asked the Laborer.

  “Nope. Wasn’t even born on a planet.”

  “And everyone there looks like us?” the bartender tried to lighten the mood.

  “Hell no. Surgery. Genomic tweaks. Gotta breathe and drink your garbage. But mostly surgery. Our medicine is way ahead.”

  “You look good.”

  “Average, actually. Standard model. Even got a peanut allergy,” Johnny chuckled. “Almost died, you know? Good thing I had my emergency med kit in the ship. Shot up, got better. Always carry it now,” he tapped his inner jacket pocket. “Our medicine’s way ahead. And yeah, I’m a hermaphrodite. Most sapient species end up that way. And you would too... You would’ve. But honestly, you all deserve it. I’ve never seen such a pack of moronic savages on one planet...” He spiraled again into a venomous tirade, pouring scorn on the human race as a whole, and certain individuals in particular.

  By the end of his monologue, everyone in the bar was staring at him—eyes full of wildly different stories, but the same, shared rage. Everyone except the Laborer and the bartender.

  “Burn in your own damn hell! I’m outta here. And your whiskey’s crap…”

  The ginger bartender silently flipped a hidden switch under the counter and filled Johnny’s glass to the brim.

  “Last one. On the house.”

  Johnny stood up, downed it in one go, and staggered out of the bar.

  The bikers, led by the silver-bearded one, stood up and followed. The students paid and left wordlessly.

  “Guess it’s my time too,” said the Laborer, thanked the bartender, and left.

  The bartender calmly turned off the outside lights, hung a "Closed" sign, and while whistling an Irish tune, returned the bottle of cheap local whiskey, the pricier Irish one, and the peanut-infused bourbon to their places.

  “Mixing decent liquor with juice... What a waste,” he thought.

  Epilogue

  Mindy Rose now lives happily with her husband and kids.

  The students graduated and moved away.

  The bikers still roam the backroads.

  The sheriff lives a quiet life, occasionally disturbed by drunken brawls at the Redheaded Patrick.

  Somewhere far away, miners search for coal-rich planets, never hearing of Earth. Meanwhile, the Orion Arm Coordinator has already purchased dozens of planets with proceeds from smuggled precious goods.