Whisky Sunday appeared as a beacon of life on a cold starry night. Bright beams of light from within the train's generously sized windows pierced deep into the thick greenery and white deserts on the train's nighttime journey back home into the bustling city of New Dwarden. Occasional travelers would wave the train down as if welcoming it homeward while the sound of laughter and the smell of sizzling meat from the train would wave back. Travelers of all kinds would sneak a glance into the mysterious Whisky Sunday and would catch glimpses of its insides. Stories from onlookers would describe the train as having twenty carts lined up from head to tail in a personalized paradise for its often royal passengers. Some would say the train doesn’t need tracks but instead needs only the manifestation of memories of its riders to get to its destination. Rumors would even describe the train as a transport for the spirit world that awaits those who are dead and are in crossing. However, Pistol dismisses the rumors in favor of his own truth. The train is exactly how long it needs to be and serves those it chooses.

The Whisky Sunday wore a generous amount of large oil lamps and shrubs of greenery growing straight from the walls and floors. In addition, portraits of sea monsters covered the entirety of the metallic ceiling above. Regardless of how many times the cart changes, Pistol knew that the liquor never did. There is always time for a moment’s drink. Pistol made sure his passengers had a chance to admire his collection of rare and exotic aged drinks -regardless of their often ridiculous shapes and sizes. Only on truly special days would someone be allowed to drink from Pistol’s collection, though Sarah - as many times as she goes back and forth from shelf to shelf- cannot recall the last time she had seen someone take part in Pistol’s collection. Even so, while the train’s selection of drinks was something to marvel at -to Pistol’s dismay- the kitchen was its biggest attraction. Rumors of a fighting chef running the kitchen behind the giant curtains circulated the train like the smell of baked bread in the night. However, no one but Pistol and Sarah knows of the chef’s true identity, only of an alleged chef who fights any rowdy bunches in the stead of Pistol or Sarah should the situation occur. Murmurs of his identity could always be heard sometime in the night but the speculation only lasts until the chef’s specialty of charcoal roasted food inevitably appears on a long wooden tray before drooling eyes. While Whiskey’s Sunday’s menu is relatively small, Pistol knows too well that the food and drink speak for itself as patrons clamor for the signature Whiskey Dish; a dish consisting of glazed plump fire shrimp over a bed of spicy pulled barbecue pork. Most order it with a pitcher of signature creamy rum, bitter yet satisfying mead, or the gassy Grog. As soon as the kitchen turns on its flame, passengers are never too far and for Pistol, tonight was supposed to be no different.

“Snap out of it!” Hollered Sarah.

“Four drinks and your head shoots straight into the clouds! Is that not embarrassing for you!?” Scolded Sarah in passing.

“I don’t need to prove myself with drink.” Laughed Pistol.

Between the murmuring, shouting, and even the occasional raised fist came a silence that wedged itself into the train like a strange out-of-body dream. Rain unlike any other began to pour. A downpour of water slammed the train like ice-covered needles. An eerie wind chill smothered the train like a cold wet touch in the dead of night. Any sort of banter came to a screeching halt as the train car itself grew chaotic with noise. Suddenly, there was a large black silhouette outside the train car door furthest to the bar. Everyone watched as the crack of the sliding door widened and the moonlight squeezed through. Time came to a crawl as everyone watched a large creature grow from a pile of strange pulsating bubbles.

A blue glossy hand emerged, then a slimy webbed foot, until finally there stood a giant blue frog about the size of an average man at the end of a dark aisle. Heavy rain intensified with every step the creature plopped deeper into the aisle. An absent black marble gaze restrained the train. Not a sound arose from a single body. The spirit appeared fixated on the bar on the edge of the train, never acknowledging a single person on it’s way there with so much as a blink. No one even knew if it even could. As the moonlight revealed more of the creature, Pistol observed how it wore a simple buttoned-up yellow raincoat with a matching overly sized hat. The hat sparkled with thickened bubbles as it’s grooves led the bubbles to ultimately fall onto the ground like balls of popping wet sand. A generous layer of mucus followed the creature while it’s foggy green skin gave it a unique sort of polish. Still, Pistol struggled to make heads or tails of the creature as spirits are not known to wear human clothing, let alone share a train with other humans. Greenery of all kinds grew in place of the red carpet covering the aisle while thick slime oozed into the many cracks of the wood. Pistol simply continued to observe the creature as it propped itself onto the barstool.

“Never met a creature like you.” Remarked Pistol, gripping the bar just in front of him.

“I am what I am.” Smiled the creature with a pearly white grin, its voice almost ethereal in nature.

“Will you listen?” Asked the creature.