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The otter gulped down the whiskey and immediately wished he hadn't. Whiskey never agreed with him. Wine was his favorite and even cheap lager was tolerable, but whiskey always made him sick to his stomach. You couldn't do shots of wine or beer, however. Barry knew that much, but now he hated the fact that he had gotten into this stupid competition in the first place.

Kahnso tossed back his second shot, matching the otter. A smile creased up his handsome snout. "Two for two." He held up a finger as if to emphasize his speech. "McCartney is a hack and the Rolling Stones are better in every way."

Barry's snout wrinkled. He refilled the shot glasses and raised his to his lips, downed it in one foolish gulp and slammed the glass back down. He watched through eyes swimming with tears - Barry oh so hated the burn of whiskey - as Kahnso calmly took his shot, then poured another pair.

"Three for three," Barry said, raising the shot glass, spilling a few droplets. "And as for you, mister cocaine and fast women," the otter mumbled, his British accent making even his slurred speech sound refined, "I find your entire style wholly derivative of Guns 'N Roses." He tossed back the shot, shuddered, firmly placed the glass down. He was hoping it would shatter so he'd have an excuse to stop. "And you haven't even got the benefit of writing a ballad half as stimulating as November Rain, only two times as needlessly saccharine."

Barry thought he saw a twinge of offense on the big fox's face. He knew it for sure when he was kicked under the table. "Fuck off, tea-slut," Kahnso snorted, and gulped down the shot. He poured another two, did his fifth immediately, and called out to the waitress. "Hey, girly! Nachos, over here!"

"Nachos," Barry mumbled, shaking his head. He lifted the shot glass to his lips and made the mistake of smelling the contents. "Oh, good lord."

"S'matter, rudder-ass?" Kahnso leaned on the table, his smile crooked. He was unbearably handsome and Barry hated that. Moreover, Barry hated that he was arguing with Kahnso at all; he didn't like to hate anybody, period, but nobody could badmouth the Fab Four when he was present. It was the one way to run afoul of Barry, who preferred to make love, not war.

"What's wrong?" Kahnso prodded again, starting to grin. "Gonna puke? I thought you liked to drink."

Barry glared at Kahnso, but glares were difficult to manage on friendly, cherubic face. "No, I'm not," he affirmed, and gulped down the shot. He let out a braying sound, tossing back his head. "Oh, good lord."

"Five for five," Kahnso said. A pretty waitress, also an otter, came and put down Kahnso's nacho platter. "Thanks, sweetheart," he amicably said. "Hey, you ought to bring a bucket. My friend with the bad taste here is about to repaint your floor."

The girl smiled and shook her head as if to say you silly drunks. She left and Kahnso stared at her behind. "Mmm, nice rudder-butt going on there. Barry, you do chicks or are you just a fudge packer?"

"I'm going to say that's not any of your business," Barry slurred, and struggled to pour two shots. Much of the liquor splashed on the table. It was a good thing Kahnso paid for the bottle, he thought. "Oh. Oh, shit. Such tiny glasses..."

"Such drunk hands," Kahnso said, smirking. He picked up a nacho, swirled it around the cheese and sour cream, and ate it in one bite. "Have a nacho. Choke on it, in fact," he offered, pushing the platter towards Barry.

Under more sober circumstances, Barry would have loved a nacho. He enjoyed spoiling himself with overwrought American food - and to that end, he believed nachos such as the ones Kahnso ordered were as Mexican as Taco Bell. Liquor changed his tastes, or more accurately removed them, replacing every craving with revulsion. The smell of melted cheese and canned chili was as repugnant as an open wound. The otter clapped a webbed paw to his mouth with the subtlety of a soap opera actor hearing a stunning revelation.

Kahnso leaned in, fascinated and grinning wide, teeth glinting almost up to the gums. A strand of cheese clung to one of his prominent fangs and that was what did Barry in. The otter fell out of his chair, knees thudding on the wooden floor. His stout body lurched rhythmically, his mustelid form moving in almost a sine wave as his gut flip-flopped. He tried to will the vomit to stay where it was, but to no effect.

Barry's gag cut the air of the bar like a gunshot. A foam of whiskey-scented bile slopped past his lips, the spray fanning into a cone shape before it hit the boards. A sound like a bucket of water being dumped across pavement smacked through the bar which had gone deathly quiet since his first gag, and the only sound beside it was the otter's wailing retches which had a vaguely musical quality to them.

The otter's vomiting stopped but he still wavered on his knees which were now resting in a puddle of bile. It dribbled off his lip, spattered on the nice button-down shirt he wore. He liked this shirt but its ruination was very far down on his list of concerns at the moment.

Kahnso ate another nacho. "So, as I was saying," he said cheerfully, "the Beatles are overrated and you should get a fucking haircut."

It was unrelated to Kahnso's outburst - Barry hardly noticed him in his attempt not to puke again - but the flow began anew with one sharp retch. Like a pump reaching sludge at the bottom of a tank, Barry was now evacuating the sub sandwich he had eaten for dinner. Semi-recognizable chunks of meat and vegetables plopped into the frothy mess as his knees and still more was coming. The slurry reeked of digestion and sulfur and it set Barry off in a recursive frenzy of retches and coughs which shook out the last of his stomach's contents. He dry heaved for many seconds more, hugging himself, clutching his chest as if having a heart attack.

"Ah, oh good god," Barry bleated and retched again, but he had only the saliva in his mouth to spew now. Vomit loped down his chin. It dribbled from his nostrils, mixing with snot and falling in long strands toward the floor. A few patrons got up to leave.

"Hey, girl," Kahnso said to the otter waitress, and tossed back his next shot. "You should bring a mop. Forget the bucket."

The otter unsteadily climbed back into his chair. He looked balefully at the nachos and especially his shot of whiskey.

"You're an evil bloke, Kahnso," he rasped, "and your music's really quite shite."

Kahnso picked up Barry's shot glass and tossed back the drink for him. It offended the otter that Kahnso still seemed unfazed by the booze. "Can't hear you over my three platinum albums."

"Oh-, oh, do be quiet," Barry muttered, grabbing a napkin off the table. He wiped his nose with it, then his mouth. The vomit only smeared around his chin, but at this point he seemed unable to care about his appearance. A worker approached with a pail of sawdust and Barry looked away, unable to meet the fellow's eyes.

"Have a nacho," Kahnso maliciously said, pushing the platter towards Barry again.

Barry shuddered and pushed it back. He hated how handsome Kahnso looked, especially when he was being evil. It seemed to bring out the most in his features. "Stop it. Please stop. You win."

"Stop it, stop, weh-weh-weh, you sound like a girl I nailed last night. Fuckin' pussy." The big fox ate a few more nachos and had a drink of whiskey right from the bottle. He stood up, leaving the bottle but taking the nachos, and dropped a twenty on the table. "Next time you get pissy about how much your favorite band sucks, try to pick a contest you can actually win. I'm gonna guess you're good at sucking cocks."

And with that, Barry was alone at the table, his only companion the skunk quietly cleaning up his vomit. The Beatles were still the finest band to ever exist.