Down the corridor, a contest was going on between the Grey Menace and his buddy the double clawed Jean LeFoot. It was similar to the human “game” of one punch – give me your best shot, except with paws. They were very bored.
In the giant bay that used to be a casket factory, the human people were equally bored. The Friday evening party had degenerated into a contest of “bad drinks” – who could concoct the most disgusting alcoholic beverage and have the rest drink it. So far, my, shall we say whimsical, creation of buttermilk, scotch, and peppermint Schnapps was in the lead. Then Paul brought out the bottle of Moxie. The sight of the distinctive red and white bottle with the pharmacist pointing his finger at you brought alternating shudders and nervous laughter from the group.
You don’t play around with Moxie in New England. Some places in New England are Moxie roots country, where it’s almost venerated. And in other locations, nobody would touch the stuff, and the bottles sit on the shelf aging but not improving. So pulling out the Moxie was throwing down a gauntlet of sorts. I mean, what kind of fool ruins a rare brandy, single malt scotch or aged bourbon in a fizzy drink? That indeed summed up the opinion of some.
On the other hand, others in the group grimaced. Love of Moxie is optional, and those that hate it hate it with a passion. It’s sickly sweet with a medicinal bite, followed by a bitter after taste.
I had serious competition for the final drink off of the evening, and it might have gotten ugly if Boston’s Finest had not chosen that moment to break up the party. Saved from the Moxie.
The two cats watched the party break up down the corridor and wandered in to see if any of the roast beef platters remained. They made a fast retreat when they smelled the spilled concoctions on the floor. Cleanup in the morning would be challenging.