Ho, dear reader! Huddle close to this page terminus while I sit at The Meanwhile Bar, suckling at a treat of my own concoction: The Ghost Puncher. The origin of this drink drives from a reference of irreverence against the famous non-alcoholic infusion, The Arnold Palmer.

Speak never, friends and loyal readers (both of you), that I’ve not drank within an establishment dubbed by a designation of hat, lest they be put asunder. The fallacious malalignment could not be further from its proper port of purpose.

I command these words to paper with hand atremble. Found am I, perched ad precarium aboard a barstool in a veritable Elysian Field of fine quaff. For certainly, no concoction of the wrangled Terra could formulate such fine a philter as that which I now quaff: The Dry Agent.

I awake, supine, I surmise, seeing only a field of stars. It's cold as bones, twice as wan, snow banking all aside me like tucked bedsheets. The last thing I remember is sinking in a bright, green sea bore in a fishbowl. Now, the inebriate warmth of those tropic waters wash away by wintery waves.