The Pub was gray and dull. It was serving only one kind of beer and that one was orange. Because of our traditional spice, the alternative tangerine, the bartender explained to Beaver.
“Then, I’d like an orange ale, please,” said the Mighty Beaver.
“What’s your name, foreigner?” the bartender poured him a beer.
“It’s Chuck. Why a foreigner? Don’t we speak the same language?”
“Yes, although you have a funny intonation.”
“Then, what?”
“We never say please. Plus, you don’t look like an orange citizen and you certainly don’t act like one.”
“And how does an orange citizen act like?”
The bartender looked around with a careful look, then leaned over the counter and said softly:
“Keeps his head down, doesn’t strut like you, but hobbles.”
“What? Everybody hobbles? Are all orange people crippled?”
“Yes. No! We hobble so we avoid volunteering to work at the Atlantic-Pacific Canal.”
“Isn’t actually not volunteering easier than hobbling?”
“If you’re healthy, then you’re automatically volunteering. That’s the orange way of life.”
“Sorry,” said the Beaver, “lesson learned.”
“And we never say sorry.”
“Sorry,” said the Beaver. “I mean, got it.”
“Anything to eat, Chuck?” the bartender pushed the mug of ale to the Beaver.
“Do you happen to have poutine?”
The bartender looked stricken: “Oh, so not any kind of foreigner, but a Cana from beyond the Wall that keeps us safe.”
“Maybe…”
“No, heathen!” Said the bartender out loud. “Drink your ale and leave my honorable establishment. I don’t want your kind in here.”
“What?”
“Go to 666 Acacia Avenue. They’ll welcome you there,” the bartender whispered, then straightened his back and maintained his hard face.
“Sorry?”
“Leave the ale and take your disgusting sorry out of here!” said the bartender out loud then whispered: “You have to go now. The Orange guard is outside already.”
The Mighty Beaver slammed the mug of ale on the counter and ran out the back door.