Fiction Challenge #4:
Untitled
by Captain Spud

So the octopus turns to the bartender and goes, "DUDE! WHERE THE HELL'RE ALL THE LADIES?!"

He wiggles his way over to the bar and pulls himself up onto a stool. The bartender, mouth agape, just stares.

"Yo, Ted Danson! I comes here for the fine women, and I don't see none! What's the frickin' deal?!"

The bartender is still staring at the multicolored mollusc, his hands trembling at his sides.

"Look, bub," the octopus says, "It's a simple question." He grabs the confused and terrified old man by the collar and raises a tentacle high.

"WHERE."

*SMACK*

"ARE."

*SMACK*

"THE."

*SMACK*

"FRICKIN'."

*SMACK*

"HONEYS."

*SMACK*

The bartender, his face resplendant with bright pink tentacle slap marks, finally manages to stutter out a reply.

"Th-they's p-p-prob'ly at h-home!"

This obviously isn't the reply the psychadelic octopus is looking for.

"And why the hell are they there, when we've got fine companionship," he indicated himself with a pointed tentacle, "and all the liquor a girl could want?" He swept the pseudopod suggestively past the bar.

At this moment, Minuteman stumbles out of the bathroom, his intoxicated form supported on the shoulder of his intrepid sidekick. A beige-orange stain adorns the Star-Spangled Freedom Forcer's chest.

"Ooooooh... I dun feel suh guhd..."

Liberty Lad strains under the weight. "Oof. Maybe you shouldn't have hit the hooch quite so hard, Frank."

"But it'sh muh Thangsgivin pahty!"

At this point, he lifts his head and sees the scene at the bar, where a tie-dyed octopus is delivering a beating to the old bartender. His bloodshot eyes go wide.

"Whoo... mebbe yuhr right, little buddy. Less go hohm."

Liberty Lad eyes the altercation warily, shakes his head incredulously, and struggles out the door, his barely-animate parcel swearing off cheap scotch forever.