“Alright, alright. Masterclass starts in 10 everyone. Gather in close, make sure you’ve got eyes on the bar top. We’ve got some classics, some you might not have heard of, and one of my personal favourites. Bring it in.”
Alexander Raven, dressed to the nines, black tuxedo with a bright red bow tie and a pristine crisp white shirt, hair tied back tightly, and beard shaved down to a rough stubble. For all intents and purposes, looking a far different man than normal finds himself in a room surrounded by people of various ages and backgrounds. A few SCW stars with a keen eye for good spirits and liquor also taking residency. Alex smiles as he walks the bench, his array of tools at hand. Shakers, strainers, a multitude of cocktail classes, rose glasses, pony pots for those willing to sample but not wanting a full ride. Behind him a fully decked out bar, reaching at least 5 shelves deep, and then another 5 deep in a top section above him.
“Ladies and Gentleman, I am Alexander Raven, and I will be your Master of Spirits for this evening. As someone very acquainted with pain; from evenings of heavy drinking and evenings of heavy beatings. We’ll be starting with something a little bit boozier than your standard, but a perfect one for a sprightly cruise like the one we’re on.”
Alex smiles and stretches his hands out as he turns to face the wall behind him, the throng of people gathering inwards. Alex grabs a bottle of Pusser’s Navy Rum, placing it upon the bench top. A bottle of pineapple juice, and some orange juice freshly squeezed adjoin it. A double jigger placed beside them.
“We start with ‘The Painkiller’. First made in British Virgin Islands, we keep it authentic with Pusser’s Navy Rum. Depending on the strength of the hangover, two ounce may be plenty. However, with the Ultimate X Over the Pool match ahead of us, and the brutality and violence awaiting us. I think we are looking at a Painkiller #4. If you like Pina Coladas, ladies and gentleman, and seeing wolves get caught in the waves, this is the one for you.”
Raven smiles widely, as a few chuckles emanate from evident fans. He shovels some pre-crushed ice into his shaker, free pouring the rum as he measures out the pineapple and orange juice. Smiling he pulls another bottle from under his bar, pouring an ounce of cream of coconut. With a flip of the bottle, he replaces it on the counter, and slaps the top shell of the shaker down onto the bottom. Pushing them together tightly, he bounces the shaker back and forth across his palms before shaking vigorously over his left shoulder.
“As an extra treat for you ladies and gentleman. Tonight you’ll get not only a masterclass in cocktails and history. But you’ll also get an insight into the mind of the Broken Messiah himself. The Painkiller, so aptly named. Pain is a wonderful emotion in our industry. In this, the place of sin and debauchery. Where every wolf is bedding every dog. Where every bird is mocking said beasts. The incestuous mixings I’ve spoken of, they remain to keep us distracted. Distracted from the truth that we are so unwilling to see. The Wolves of this company are deeply rooted in its festering depths. They cause a deep pain, a migraine of the soul. Agony emanates because people like Miles and Finn. Gripping the leg of freedom in their jaws, they force a pain and agony into our existence. Alas, ladies and gentleman. Whilst I am the One True King, and a master of spirits the same. I’m afraid this boozier take on a Pina Colada, may not suffice in being a potent enough Painkiller for the pain that we suffer at the hands of these wolves.”
Discontented murmurs echo, as some people begin to heckle. Telling Raven to get on with it. Scoffing, Alex finishes his shaking, and twists the shaker apart. Placing a strainer over the top of the filled half, he begins to pour the liquid into a cocktail glass.
“Will a fan of the wolf known as Miles, step forth and sample, please?”
As the final few drops fill the mid size glass to the rim a rather squat looking man pushes his way to the front. Alex smiles as he pours a generous helping of nutmeg on the top, and sliding an orange wedge into the glass. The man stepped forward, and Alex reaches across the bar and pulls the man onto it. Gasps from the surrounded onlookers, but a few instigators shouting ‘get ‘em!’ ‘show them what happens Raven!’. Alex smacks the mans face into the bar top, and flicks his head back.
“Miles Kasey. You didn’t listen did you? Do you see Miles? The focus? You’re lacking it. You’re a loud and obtuse man, this is for sure. You’ve got new blood waiting for you at home, and yet, here you are. On the seas, waiting. Ready to be thrown from the top into the pool and eliminated. To fail once more. To fail to reach the standard that wolves have given you. Like this man, Miles. Full of arrogance, bravado and misplaced machismo. Like this man, you step to a master with all the confidence in the world, and yet. Just like this man. You’ll be needing a painkiller, Miles. Are you listening? Do you understand?”
Alex smiles, and loosens his grip allowing the man to slide and stagger back. Blood pouring from his seemingly broken nose.
“Your drink, sir.”
Raven holds the glass out to the man who takes it limply and walks away, a few attendants moving to help stem the flow of blood. Drops of blood lay on the desk. Raven holds his hand out, a crew member handing him a towel, bright red. Raven allows it to be draped over his arm holding it out far to his side. Reaching into a pocket he pulls some fine sand from the pocket and sprinkles some into the blood upon the bar top. Taking the towel he wipes the sand and blood free from the bar top, before laying the clean side face up on the bar.
“Blood and Sand, is a Scotch cocktail named after the Bullfighter film from 1922 of the same name. Blood and Sand is a personal favourite of mine, and aptly named considering the events we’ve just experienced. Fret not ladies and gentleman. Theatrics and drama are all parts of the bartending experience. Whilst some will flip and flop bottles, and spread fire and flames to enhance the danger, I prefer a much more individual experience. The drama and theatre so real it is indistinguishable otherwise. Blood and Sand ladies and gentleman.”
The crowd once again murmurs and gather in closer to watch the show once more. Alex smiles grabbing a bottle of Glenfiddich Cask Collection Single Malt, and placing it upon the bar, coupled with a vermouth, coupled with a Cherry Heering liqueur. Alex grabs a smaller shaker this time.
“Whilst normally a far less boozy cocktail, to sit upon the deck, sip and stare into the world beyond. There is none better than this classic. Much lighter than the Painkiller, Blood and Sand will have you ready to fight upon the sandy beaches of wherever you frequent.”
Raven pours an ounce of the scotch, three quarters of that in liqueur and vermouth, as well as some orange juice. Smiling he also squeezes a couple of lemon wedges into the tin followed by some ice.
“Lemon is an often excluded ingredient, but to stay true to the classics of the world, it is a must inclusion. I like to see myself in the Blood and Sand, as without Alexander Raven this cruise would be missing a crucial element. Without the Conspiracy keeping all in check and focused, there would be a sense of classical integrity missing.”
Shaking vigorously, frosting slowly engulfs the tin. Alex places the shaker tin upon the bar top as he slowly removes the top half and allows the waft of the ice to emanate from the top of the glass.
“Like the iceberg that sank the titanic, I changed the course of history just a few weeks back. By sinking the good ship The Virulence, I put the blood in the sand and marked my truth upon this cruise. To walk in as champion, I was the iceberg that changed history. Unlike the Titanic however, I will not be sunk by an unknown chunk of ice. Unlike the titanic, I will not be thrust from the top of the world into the icy depths below. Blood and Sand is a fantastic analogy for the truth that I intend to bring to this Summer. The Summer of Raven, if you will. The Summer of Truth. The Summer of flames.”
Placing a strainer over the top, Raven pours the brownish red liquid into a frosted glass, a whiskey rock floating inside. With a smile, an orange twist is hooked over the rim of the glass and it is handed to a well dressed man standing near the bar. Hesitantly he takes it, and when no violence follows a wash of relief flows across the crowd. A ornate Georgian glass is placed upon the bar top. Another person places a small glass of steaming hot coffee, and then a prepared shaker filled with a cream float.
“For a man who flies off the handle at the smallest irks. Who shows very little care and effort in his actions, Finn Whelan comes from a land that would be well acquainted with this next one. The Seamstress Irish Coffee, created by a wonderful aficionado Pam Wiznitzer of the Seamstress, an elegant spot in Upper East New York, is aptly named. A velvety smooth experience that will have you coming back over and over. Whilst Wiznitzer swears by drip coffee, I am more partial to espresso. The taste is different, and whilst the coffee itself will be a slightly more bitter experience, bitterness is what I seek here.”
A bottle of Irish Whiskey, a sugar syrup squeeze bottle are pulled from the back shelf and held in hand. Carefully pouring out near two ounces of the whiskey, a small helping of the sugar syrup to follow and then just over two ounces of coffee.
“You see, this Irish Coffee is about controlled, and delicate detail. Unlike the aggressive natured and quick to excuse poor form Finn Whelan, this requires careful, careful detail. No amount too much or too little. Perfect and delicate balance. Our resident Saint of Sin City could do much to listen and learn here.”
‘Shut up nobhead!’ shouts one of the onlookers, a few people turning around to expose said person. Raven shakes his head slightly, and gestures with his hand, indicated that the man come forward. As he does, he pours a thin layer of cream on top, before grating some fresh cinnamon over the top of it.
“Like the man he idolises, a temper as quick as his time in the sun will be. Sir, please. I invite you to sample this.”
Suddenly a lot less confident, the man steps forward as Raven hands him the glass. A Cheshire smile stretched across his face. A small sip, the steaming hot coffee making the person hiss, before tilting their head. ‘It’s damn good.’
“Sometimes, the gentle hand is the one that leads to greatness. Something that both the wolves could learn to understand. You see, Ladies and Gentleman. The strength of a bartender comes from his ability to serve with the correct form. The twists and changes he makes along the way, serve to fulfil the grand design. To be the Master of Spirits, you must be willing to slow yourself down. To temper yourselves, like the mightiest of steel. Finn is a man who lives bound by his own set of rules and emotions. Yet unlike the masters who have come before, and those journeyman developing their craft now. Finn is a lost lamb who refuses to listen to the greater words of those above him. Excuses, failures and forgetfulness. It was not a mere fluke of luck that put him beneath me. It was not a mere gesture of dumb chance that ensured that I was the iceberg of his voyage. Finn needs to be an Irish Coffee, yet he is little more than a shot of whiskey in his morning brew. Quick, haphazard and serving to soothe demons. No, ladies and gentleman. Finn is no Saint, but that of the failures and tears that fall as a result.”
Raven tips his head slightly to the man, who nods a little to himself looking a little less certain of himself than he did a moment earlier. The ship itself appears to have begun to rock slightly, being so far out to sea resulting in some rather nasty waves.
“The next is something that any, and all bartenders need to have in their back pocket. Something that will determine how much people love your work, and how many negative yelp reviews you’ll have to deal with.The Old Fashioned is one of, if not the oldest cocktails in existence today. Just like former champion himself, Bulldog Bill Barnhart. The Old Fashioned is full of bitters. Unlike the bitter and old man himself, the Old Fashioned will have a far sweeter overall taste, that actually gets better the more time you spend with it.”
This time most people seem to join in on the laughter erupts, clearly Raven having begun to win people over with his poor taste jokes at the expense of his opponents. A bottle of Bulleit bourbon is pulled from the back shelf, and a small bottle of Angostura bitters placed beside it. Two glasses are put side by side, one containing a very large round ice cube, the other with a few smaller cubes.
“The Old Fashioned is a simple thing to make, but incredibly hard to get the nuance correct. Your first one may be the best one you ever make, but you’ll never have the luck of making two the same. There is extra flavour held by allowing the drink to sit. Unfortunately for most of us, the longer you are forced to sit with Bulldog Bill, the worse the taste left in your mouth. No ladies and gentleman, it is unfortunately the case that whilst he may be a throwback and as old as the cocktail itself, Bulldog is never going to satisfy a single person on any given night. Poor Bea.”
Again another round of laughter as people have finally begun to loosen up. Raven claps to bring the attention back as he pours the bourbon, bitters and adds a small amount of syrup to the glass with the large cube. Placing a steel stirrer into the glass, he strikes it around the edge, stirring the ingredients only twice, before sitting it on the bar top once more.
“Miles, Bulldog and Finn are all kindred spirits. Angry, aggressive and quick to be blinded. Hyper focused, yet wearing blinders that stop them from seeing the greater picture. No patience means that they cannot be granted the sweeter pleasures in life. There is two pathways of thought when it comes to the traditional Old Fashioned. One is to stir for almost two minutes straight, stirring the entirety of the ice from existence and into the bitter sweet bourbon mix. Brash, bullheaded and with no patience, whilst the end result is serviceable, the experience is less than ideal. No, I am much more akin to the patient and cautious approach. Two stirs, no more and no less. Just enough to blend your bitters and bourbon. Unlike, Miles, Bulldog and Finn, I do not rush into things. Mistakes, ladies and gentleman, are costly. Elimination is something I cannot risk, and so. Even with the target painted upon me, I will wave the red flag. Like the bullfighter of Blood and Sand, the red flag will wave. The nuanced touch of the Irish Coffee will lend itself to me, and I will be the Painkiller that ends the anguish and distraction of this business for these men.”
After a few minutes have passed, Raven slowly pours the liquid from the large cube glass, to the other with small ice cubes. Entwining an orange and lemon twist, he rests this upon the rim and holds it aloft. The crowd of onlookers looking up at it.
“Just like that, patience pays off. A sweet, yet bitter, yet ever evolving taste. Patience lends itself to this masterpiece, and that is why it is one of the oldest cocktails in the world. From times of patience and understanding. From times of Kings and Queens. From times of Messiah, Prophets and alike. And yet, none are willing to wait. So…”
With a sharp rock of the boat, Raven releases his grip upon the glass and allows it to shatter upon the floor. Murmurs of confusion move through the onlookers, and Raven shakes his head a little, turning his back.
“I am, Alexander Raven. The One True King, the Broken Messiah and the False Prophet. I stand before you the current reigning Roulette Champion, and I will walk out of this match still the reigning Roulette Champion. My past walks before me once more, and I will not falter. We appear to be in for a Dark and Stormy evening ladies and gentleman. Something of a homework task. A simple drink, but one that can only be made with the specific rum of British Sailors of the early 20th century. That concludes tonight’s masterclass. I shall see you all, when I retain my championship, and solidify myself as the defending king of this City of Sin.”
Claps, cheers and whoops come from the people who had been attending. Those of which who hadn’t had their noses likely broken, or their basis of support shattered the same. Raven looks over the bar behind him, as some crew members begin to clean the broken glass, and prepare for typical bar service. A dark evening on deck likely to bring them more business than normal. And then…
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.