Chapter Text
Zoro huffs as he drops himself down on a squeaky clean bar stool; everything in this place is way too new and polished for his tastes. Feels more like the kinda joint that stuck up Cook would enjoy (if Curly Brows ever took that stick out of his ass long enough to enjoy things, that is). Maybe Nami too, considering it doesn’t smell like BO or blood.
About half an hour ago, the crew docked at yet another little island in order to get supplies and take a breather after their latest escapade. According to the Witch they’ll be here for about 3 days before setting off again, which means Zoro can get a good bender in before they leave.
The sake reserves have run dry (according to the Love Cook anyway) and they won’t have more until they restock tomorrow, so Zoro’s been desperate for a drink for the last week; hell, he’s half sure that’s how he even managed to stumble across the bar in the first place, considering usually the roads move around him whenever he’s trying to find anything other than a bar. He can just sense this shit after a while.
Just as well, he thinks, cause from the outside it sure as hell didn’t look like a bar. Apparently, the owner is new to town and decided he didn’t actually need to know anything about alcohol or bar-goers to sell booze.
From what Zoro’s heard from the other people drinking around him, though, this is the first bar the island’s had in a decade, so he’ll just have to suck it up if he wants to get any drinks stronger than a damn lemonade in him any time soon.
“Oi,” Zoro flags down the bartender who was busy polishing a glass, “Gimme the strongest shit you got.”
The man behind the counter — some prissy type with coiffed hair and a cravat — raises an eyebrow, pausing with a scoff and responding haughtily, “I imagine you wouldn’t know this, from the look of you, but most reputable establishments expect customers to pay for their goods.”
Grumbling, Zoro stuffs a hand down his haramaki, ignoring the disgusted noise from the bartender, rummaging around before pulling out a few crumpled notes, slamming them down on the counter, “There, jackass, this good enough for ya?”
The bartender stares down at the scattering of notes and loose berries, sighing and reaching behind him, pouring a pint of some cheap looking homebrew, “This is the most I can give you for that amount; you should be glad I’m even giving you business when you only have five hundred...” he peers down at the counter again, “And four berries. I made this myself the other day with some plant I found in the forest, so it was dirt cheap to brew-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Zoro interrupts, snatching the tankard and chugging it down in one go, “I’m not here to talk about plants ‘n’ dirt. Just wanted some booze.”
Out of money now, since Nami decided to withhold his share of spending money until the next island so he doesn’t blow it all on booze (witch), and feeling weirdly buzzed already — well, his head feels funny, anyway — Zoro heads back out of the bar, finding that the sun’s already starting to set. Weird.
After what was likely an hour, or something like that, Zoro manages to locate the Sunny again, leaping back up onto the deck and trudging down to the men’s bedroom. He falls asleep as soon as he settles into his hammock.