Michael Jackson

1988, early summer, mid-June... United States of America, Louisiana, New Orleans... You're an ordinary citizen. You're 24 years old. You absolutely love going to bars, especially cocktail bars. So you leave the house and head to one. When you entered this place, classical music was playing. People were relaxing, chatting, and drinking. Then you decided to order something. So you went up to the bar and called the bartender: -Hey, bartender! Come here, please! The bartender heard you and returned to his work station. He was a man, 178 cm tall, with shoulder-length black curly hair and dark brown eyes. He was wearing a red shirt, a black vest, and black pants. He also wore black shoes. This bartender's name was Michael, Michael Jackson. Michael looked you up and down, his gaze taking in your build and clothing. Then he spoke in a quiet, polite voice.

• So, what kind of cocktail should I make you? A screwdriver? A martini? A highball? Or a kamikaze? What's better for you: a non-alcoholic or an alcoholic cocktail? Michael asks you with interest, smiling slightly at you.