WASHINGTON • 1883 — Billy Dorsey, one of the most popular bartenders in Georgetown, was acting strange. Even outside the neighborhood, Washingtonians who enjoyed a tipple knew of Billy’s skill with gin—the Martinez in particular, but he also made a mean Delmonico. Fans of a Brandy Smash or a Whiskey Cobbler knew they wouldn’t find a better one in the city than at Braddock’s Tavern when Billy was working.
As Billy’s reputation grew, proprietor Robert Braddock had to weigh his annoyance that people around Georgetown began referring to his establishment as Dorsey’s against the number of customers his young, talented barkeep’s reputation brought through the door. The boy was a master of refined, perfectly balanced, classic drinks, and Braddock knew he was lucky to have him on his staff.
Despite the adulation, Billy maintained a level head. He regularly told his boss that he derived a tremendous amount of satisfaction from sliding a well-crafted drink across the bar toward a customer who looked like he’d had a tough day. All the hours he’d put into developing his craft became worth it, he told Braddock, in the instant the glass came down from that customer’s first sip—his eyes closed, his lips pressed into a smile. Billy knew in those moments that he’d helped usher at least a couple seconds of happiness into the world.
Kill Devil
2 ounces Rhum Agricole
½ ounce Green Chartreuse
¼ ounce rich (2:1) Demerara Syrup
3 dashes Angostura bitters
5 drops overproof rum
Stir with ice • Pour into a coupe • Float a lime disc sprinkled with overproof rum drops • Set lime disc afire
So it was odd when Billy politely started asking his regulars to refer to him as The Father of Lies. He asked Braddock to make out his paychecks to Asmodeus, King of Demons. His pallor grew pale. His eyes sunk a bit in his skull. He allowed his suspenders to fall from his shoulders during his shift. The handlebars of his mustache drooped.
Most troubling to his legion of regulars was the quality of Billy’s drinks. Perhaps quality is the wrong word. The cocktails were still meticulously crafted, but they were somehow…off.
“I’ve got a new drink for you to try,” Billy growled one Friday afternoon, his voice about seven octaves lower than normal. He slid a tall glass resembling a hurricane lamp toward one of his regulars, Roger Klodfangtersh, who taught rhetoric at the university, and who accepted the white drink warily.
“Thank you…Father of Lies?” Klodfangtersh said the last part sort of quietly and without much confidence because he didn’t know how many people were going along with Billy’s new name thing yet.
“So, it’s vodka, coffee liqueur, Amaretto, Irish cream liqueur, milk, cream, and some more cream,” Billy said. “Oh, and some chocolate sprinkles on top. It’s called a Screaming Orgasm. Please enjoy.”
Editor’s Note
Regular readers will know our publisher is asking us to promote his new project, “Ark,” an improvised comedy podcast revealing newly-found, ancient recordings of Noah and his wife Naamah interviewing animal couples aboard the Ark.
This week’s episode features Noah and Naamah interviewing two peacocks. This couldn’t have happened because peacocks speak a different language than whatever people on arks spoke 5,000 years ago. But whatever—enjoy it anyway.
Best,
J. Finch Barlow
Over the following weeks, as he became something other than himself, Billy introduced an entirely new menu to Braddocks. He served Blue Hawaiians, Dirty Bananas, Singapore Slings, and Woo Woos.
Robert Braddock was normally proud of the food he featured at his tavern—pickled chicken feet, soft-boiled bison snout á la mode, other stuff. Without asking, Billy rewrote the menu and began serving sour cream-smothered potato skins with Bacos, creamy taco dip, and something he called Ultimate Nachos.
At first, regulars tried to choke down Billy’s new onion rings and mozzarella sticks fare to be polite, but they started quietly begging Braddock to bring back the stuffed pig’s bladder and smoked opposum anus gelée. Worse, no one was ordering the drinks. Billy began glowering at customers when they asked for one of his old specialties. When Barbara Jopps asked Billy for a Whiskey Daisy, he told her that her children would drown in a small pond behind her house in eight months.
Billy Dorsey, behind bar, photographed at Braddock’s Tavern during a Queer Knitters and Darners of Georgetown meeting, 1889. Credit: Wikimedia Commons
Braddock went to see Father Charles McMahon, a Jesuit teaching at the university. Father McMahon had been a regular at Braddock’s Tavern before Pope Leo XIII called him to Rome in 1880 to head the Vatican’s new Beelzebub Research Center and Pancake Castle. He was back in town to meet with President Chester Arthur, who believed he had been possessed by Belial, Prince of Darkness. Shortly after Father McMahon arrived at the White House, however, the Jesuit had determined the president had simply eaten some rotten wolverine anus gelée.
Father McMahon arrived at Braddock’s Tavern and took a bar stool next to Vera Montort and Samantha Wibbly. The two women had come in for a drink after work, but Billy began berating them after they tried to order Manhattans. He put some jalapeño poppers and melted cheesefood in front of them and began mixing their drinks. “Bartender’s choice,” he snarled. The women sat still and watched.
A minute later, Billy put a small glass down in front of Vera. “This is a short drink with sambuca, Irish cream liqueur, and grenadine,” he said. “You drink it all at once. It’s called a Slippery Nipple. Please enjoy.” Billy winked at Vera when he said “Slippery Nipple,” in a really gross way. The ends of his massive smile traveled above his ears, connecting at the top of his head and forming a disturbing red halo around his face. Vera screamed.
Billy then put a tall drink down in front of Samantha. “This cocktail is made with vodka, peach schnapps, black raspberry liqueur, orange juice, pineapple juice, and cranberry juice — fucking YUM!” he said. “It’s called Sex on the Beach.” He winked again, but this time with both eyes, which he immediately regretted because he’d thought using both eyes would be even scarier and creepier, but it ended up just looking like he was blinking.
To make up for it, he let out a high-pitched cackle and began pretend-humping the cash register while his tongue rolled out of his mouth and dragged across the bar floor, slurping cockroaches and broken glass into his mouth.
Asmodeus, King of Demons strikes a pose as he leaves Billy Dorsey’s body. Not really. It’s actually “Satan Exulting over Eve” by William Blake. Credit: Wikimedia Commons
“I’ve seen this before,” Father McMahon said to Braddock. “I’ll handle it.” He motioned to Billy that he’d like to come behind the bar. “May I?” the priest asked.
“Of course, Father Chuck,” Billy grumbled. “I can’t stop you from doing God’s good work.” He laughed again, but this time, it sounded like a locomotive ripping through the tavern. Glasses fell from shelves. Sour cream curdled in potato shells. He forgot the winking problem and used both eyes again. Vera Montort laughed at him. “Oh, Father of Lies, you’re so silly. I’d love to suck down another Slippery Nipple when you have a minute,” she said, giggling. “Saying that is so fun!”
“Shut it, you dowdy hag!” Billy thundered. He turned to the priest. “What are you mixing up there, Father Chuck? It smells like toxins. You’re a terrible barkeep.”
“This is a cocktail of Caribbean rum, French herbal liqueur, some sugar and bitters,” Father McMahon said. “And some fire. Something you’ll appreciate, Asmodeus.” He cut a peel off a lime, floated it on top of the drink, lit a match and set the lime aflame.
“You’ll drink it and go back to hell,” the priest said, his voice rising. “You’ll drink it and leave the body of this boy. You’ll drink it now!” He threw the drink at Billy’s face, and in a strong, even voice instructed: “Asmodeus! Asmodeus! Asmodeus! I speak for Saint Michael, and I command you, Asmodeus, and the other evil spirits here to leave this body in the name of Dominus, immediately. Now! Now! NOW!”
Billy began screaming, “Poor Father Chuck’s toxins smell! Poor Father Chuck’s toxins smell! Poor Father Chuck’s toxins smell! Poor Father Chuck’s toxins smell! Poor Father Chuck’s toxins smell!!”
Suddenly, the tavern’s doors flew open, a gale of wind came rushing in, and the lights all went out. A few seconds later, the lights came back on, and Braddock’s was quiet. Billy lay on the floor behind the bar, unconscious but breathing.
“I think it’s gone,” Father McMahon said. “America was not ready for these cocktail and fare that Satan and his angels were offering through Billy. With God’s help, they won’t be for centuries. Or at least exactly one century.”
Another Editor’s Note: Fact-based cocktail historians claim the Kill Devil was created at Pegu Club in New York City by Erin Williams in 2008
SOURCES:
Asmodeus, King of Demons, My Dorsey Days: Three Months of Shaking, Stirring and Possessing in Georgetown—With Recipes! (Dallas: TGI Fridays Press, 1988)
Crenda P. Crendie, “Mr. Potato Satan: The Surprising Crossroads of Malevolent Spirit Possession and Loaded Skins,” Catholic Journal of Theodicy and Tubers (Issue 362, 1995)
Annie Fortgrath Trebblecups, Billy Dorsey, Father of Sexual Innuendo Cocktail Names: A Biography (New York: Lippenswish Co, 1997)
Contributors Notes:
Simon Romazzle has published poems and short stories in Kiddiepool, Shiver Me Timbers, Kyle is Wrong and Pickle Farm. As Lyman Tompazzle, he publishes and edits batpatio.com, a website for those hoping to attract more bats to—and around—their patios.
