Satan slid the microphone into the stand and made his way to the stool where he regularly caroused between sets. Crozier, the beefy ex-sailor tending bar, had a tray of drinks already waiting. Satan raised a shot to eye level and turned it lovingly, watching shards of ice dance in the dimly lit room.
The recipe was an incendiary concoction of his own invention, dramatically dubbed a Freezer Burn during a particularly rowdy evening with several Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. It was equal parts Stoli pepper vodka and cinnamon schnapps, both right out of the deep freeze, spiked with Tabasco. He had, after numerous failed attempts, finally succeeded in teaching Crozier to make them just right.
He glanced up, catching his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Satan had a narrow, pinched face, a pencil-thin mustache, and jet-black hair combed straight back. Devilishly handsome in a sleazy, bad boy sort of way, he was pretty much a regular guy, except he tended to make love with his socks on, having figured out several centuries back women found the whole cloven-hoof-thing a real turn off.