Marge chugged the last of her Iron City, slamming the bottle down so hard it cracked. From familiarity or apathy, none of the patrons of the Pig Iron Pub so much as flinched. It was payday Friday and Marge was on a tear again. So, what else was new?
She waved to Mort, the beleaguered barkeep, with a meaty index finger. Discretion being the better part of valor, he forestalled refills for two other regulars and brought her another. Marge got a tad mean if you kept her waiting.
Failing on her first try, she eventually enveloped the fresh bottle and took a long pull. Not stopping until she’d consumed better than half, she replaced it on the bar with slightly less enthusiasm than before. Turning to her co-worker, Stella, she sighed. Stella winced, knowing what would come next.
In a slurred voice, Marge said, “I wanna be a Valkyrie! Y’know, Stella? Wingin’ over battlefields pickin’ who lives and who dies? Yeah, that’s the ticket. Yeah, I would so rock that job Stella!”
“Every week the same shit, Marge. Give it a rest! You’re a middle-aged German-Irish dockworker from Spring Hill. You ain’t ever gonna be a Valkyrie, a Shield Maiden, a warrior princess or Xena. So, shut the hell up, drink your damned beer, and pass me that bowl of peanuts.”
Both cowed and chagrined, Marge slid the bowl over, mumbling, “I still wanna be a Valkyrie.”
All in all, just another Friday night at the Pig Iron Pub.