Here’s a continuation of that story:
“Do you guys have golden toilets?” Barry asks, completely serious, after downing his “I outsmarted birds” concoction.
Frank, mid-wipe, pauses and stares at him. “What? Golden toilets? What in the actual hell are you talking about?”
“Look,” Barry insists, leaning closer conspiratorially, “last night I got pretty wasted, I’ll admit. But the one thing I can remember, clear as day, is peeing in a solid gold toilet. It was… majestic. Felt like royalty.”
Frank slowly puts down his rag. “Buddy, we’re a dive bar. The fanciest thing we have is a working toilet seat. We do not have golden toilets. Never have, never will.”
Barry frowns, genuinely confused. “But… but it was definitely gold. Shiny. Reflective.” He snaps his fingers. “Wait a minute… it was in the back, near where that really loud jazz music was playing.”
Suddenly, a lightbulb goes off above Frank’s head – a very, very dim, terrifying lightbulb. His eyes widen in slow horror. He slowly turns his head towards a door at the back, just as a muffled, mournful trombone wail echoes from behind it.
Frank clears his throat, his voice unnaturally calm. “Secondly, HEY MORTY!” he bellows, his voice suddenly booming across the empty bar. “I FOUND THE GUY THAT PISSED IN YOUR TUBA!”
From the back room, a crash, a furious shout, and the distinctive clatter of a very large, brass instrument being dropped echoes through the bar. Barry, finally putting two and two together, pales dramatically.
“Oh,” he whispers, his eyes wide with dawning terror. “Oh no.”
The door to the back room bursts open, and a man built like a small tank, with a wild grey beard and an expression of pure, unadulterated fury, storms out, clutching a very large, very shiny, very gold tuba. He points a trembling, accusatory finger, still glistening with… well, you know… at Barry.
“YOU!” Morty roars, his voice shaking the very bottles on the shelves. “YOU DESECRATED MY PRIDE AND JOY! MY MAGNUM OPUS! MY… my… my golden toilet!”
Barry gulps, slowly sliding off his barstool and backing away. “It… it was an honest mistake? It was really shiny?”
Frank just shakes his head, rubbing his temples. “This is why I stopped serving shots before noon.”
Morty advances, tuba held like a weapon. “Honest mistake?! I was practicing for the annual Brass Band Bash! Now it just smells like… like… yesterday’s decisions!”
