Moe was sick and tired of cleaning the storage room. Every single keg had been dusted and some of the bad booze had been disposed of. He was relieved to note that there was only one shelf left. Reaching up with dust rag in hand, Moe started to clean the dust off the shelf.
There was a clink of glass shifting. Moe pulled the bottle off the shelf to examine it.
"Hmm," he muttered, examining the unfamiliar label. It was some sort of scotch dating to 1884. "Wow. Nice vintage."
Pulling a shot glass out of his apron, Moe poured himself a shot. Sitting on a nearby stool, Moe downed the scotch. The bartender felt the familiar burning sensation of the hard liquor. But the feeling persisted and even increased in intensity.
Then it happened. One moment he was in his back room, the next he was sitting completely naked in the ruins of his bar.
"Well, that changes things a bit for this evening," Moe commented to himself.
The hundred-foot bartender looked from the tiny bottle in his palm to the diminutive Springfield around him. Moe raised an eyebrow, unable to completely comprehend what had happened to him.
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