Betsey is mad AF and she’s not gonna take it anymore. She storms into Bloody Mary’s Bar right in the middle of an employee meeting.
Betsey: Hello boys!
All of the cranky old men are so shocked by her inability to give a single fuck about them calling the
Rich White Male Protection Service police, they can only sit there and stare at her as she goes off on her rant.
Betsey: Listen here, bitches! Yes, I am using that term in a way that upends your outdated, misogynist, patriarchal, oppressive ideas about what that word means in reference to women. BITCHES AND HOES. SAY IT WITH ME, LOUD AND PROUD, BECAUSE THAT’S ALL THAT ANY OF YOU ARE!!! I’ve had ENOUGH of your Good Ol’ Boys Club bullshit. For years, I have sat here and put my head down while you mocked and humiliated me. Now, it’s my time to shine like The Star that I am. You will keep your mouths shut and you will listen to ME. Savvy?!
All of them continue staring at her in shock because they are afraid she will kill them with a military-grade assault rifle she legally purchased yesterday and instinctively know their actions are part of the reason why. Luckily for them, Betsey doesn’t believe she should ever personally own a gun for any reason whatsoever. Instead, Betsey pulls out a piece of notebook paper from her dress pocket and turns to Andrew.
Betsey: You. You’re fired. You have no idea how the fuck to run this bar. You’re treating it like an old man’s club/personal cash cow and that’s why your sales are failing. You know why people like this bar? The amount of space. The fabulous patio. The music. The selection of pretentious craft beer. The t-shirts and the swag. The to-go six-packs you can buy at the end of the night. L’ambiance, en général! And what have you done with it? You stopped selling the six-packs because heaven forbid your DEMOCRATIC-VOTING tax dollars go to funding a community pool where your children are going to go to play. You haven’t ordered new t-shirts in over a year. You don’t write the drink specials on the board. You don’t market yourself at all. You pretend you’re not here when people call the bar asking to speak with the owner. You built that new bar outside and I’ve seen it set up maybe twice? You host a “members-only” Super Bowl party and some random kickball game you can’t even be bothered to show up for because you’re “a family man now.” You keep the two-bedroom apartment upstairs for yourself even though you live in a fucking mansion on the other side of town. The only people who come in are the same group of people who have been coming here for years. New crops of college kids don’t come in anymore. They’d rather go just about anywhere else because they think it’s full of douchebags here. You’re still doing the same old thing while everyone else is town is keeping it fresh. But hey, you’re more than happy to kick random people out who aren’t part of your club, right? Because why help young people make new memories when you can get a bunch of old people to be nostalgic and wax long and poetic about the good old days? And get over this whole “bringing back the old bartenders for Homecoming” bullshit. NOBODY CARES WHO WORKED HERE TEN YEARS AGO EXCEPT YOU. Hire college students instead! And let’s not forget the part where you’re on vacation most of the year, constantly making excuses as to why you can’t show up to work because your wife who works in Washington State doesn’t want you here, and only hire people willing to suck your dick. And then you sit there and wonder why you’re losing business? No. Just no. You’re done. Get the fuck out. You have no idea how to run a bar. You’re fired. For real.
Andrew sits there in shock, totally and completely mesmerized. Part of him wants to say something, but the other part is scared, and also he kinda just wants to see what happens. Betsey glares at him and immediately turns to the tough-looking Tattoo Guy.
Betsey: You. You’re fired too. How long have you been working here? Most of your life? Aren’t you in AA now? Why are you even still working at a bar? I mean, let’s face it. You freak out on people for no reason and scare away customers. Didn’t you want to go to law school once upon a time? Why haven’t you done it yet? You know what? It doesn’t even matter. What matters is that you’ve lived an interesting life, you have a lot of wisdom to impart on younger people who are stuck in the same places you’ve been, and you could be doing something more valuable with your time. It’s time for you to move on and do something else. You have a fuckton of potential. Get out there and use it.
Tattoo Guy stares at Betsey in shock. He doesn’t even know what to say, but deep down he knows she is right. She promptly turns to Jester.
Betsey: You. You suck at bartending and always have. This bar is supposedly well-known for their Bloody Marys and you can’t make one for shit. The fact of the matter is, you’re a better actor and always have been. Well, it turns out you’re not right for this role. Time for you to get your degree and use it to get out there and live your dreams.
Jester nods understandingly, smiles happily, and gets up to leave. Betsey turns to her neighbor across the hall.
Betsey: I mean, you already know what I’m gonna say. It’s not that you don’t want to be here, it’s just that you’d rather be sitting on the other side of the bar. The only reason you didn’t turn Andrew down when he asked is because of ~respect~. Well, that time is over now. Go do you and have fun. I’m setting you free. Get out of here and go have some fun.
Neighbor Guy: Honestly, I’d never say this in real life, but you’re so right right now. THANK YOU!
He goes to sit at the other end of the bar so he can play board games with his wife and friends. Betsey scans the meeting and focuses in on Teen Angel.
Betsey: Can we just talk about the sign issue right now? What the fuck is even going on there? I mean, first of all, it should be a painting of YOU up there serving a beer, not some random chick who doesn’t even go here. And it shouldn’t be PBR. It should be Miller High Life. PBR is for pussyass, sell-out douchebags like Jaimie and Andrew. Miller High Life is the Champagne of Beers, man. If anyone is going to paint a mural in this bar, it should be a mural of you serving that beer. Am I right or am I right?
Teen Angel: YES. THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING.
Betsey: Yeah, you’re cool. You can stay.
She looks at Teen Angel’s girlfriend.
Betsey: So do you even really want this job, or what?
Teen Angel’s Girlfriend: I mean, Friday and Saturday nights are cool, yeah.
Betsey: Yeah, you’re cool. You can stay.
Betsey looks at the other chick who serves as the cocktail waitress.
Betsey: Friday afternoons?
Cocktail Waitress: Friday afternoons.
Betsey looks at this chick’s much older boyfriend, who has definitely been working there way too long.
Betsey: Your time is over now, old man. Time to let it go.
CW’s Boyfriend: Honestly, you’re right. My back hurts and it just isn’t the same anymore now that all my friends are gone.
Betsey: Great. GTFO and don’t come back till it’s time for Happy Hour tomorrow.
Betsey turns to PJ. She takes out an envelope full of cash she stole from Andrew while he was sleeping.
Betsey: Here. I’m giving you a retirement advance. It’s time for you to go live your lifelong dream of exploring Italy and Japan. There’s enough in there for you to take your son with you. You know, really make it that educational learning experience you always dreamed it would be. And you know what? I’m gonna stuff a few extra hundreds in there, just so you two can eat all the food.
PJ: All the food?
Betsey: All the food.
PJ: [smiles at her happily and bows] Thank you, Betsey.
PJ gets up and leaves. Betsey turns to Steve, the creepy old janitor who she will never forgive for touching her without her permission. She hands him another envelope of cash.
Betsey: Congratulations! You just won the lottery! Now GTFO of here so I never have to watch your crusty old ass drag another set of chairs across the room with that terrible limp ever again.
Steve: Thanks, Betsey! You’re sexy as hell!
Betsey: Stop talking to me and get out. I can only stand to be fake nice to someone for so long.
Steve gets up and leaves. Betsey turns to Duke. They stare each other down for a solid five minutes without breaking eye contact. Finally, Betsey makes her decision.
Betsey: I mean, let’s face it. This entire place would fall apart with you. You’re the one who’s really running the show here. You’re basically just propping Andrew up at this point so he can lie around doing nothing all day while you do all the real work. I mean, just because you’re right all the time doesn’t make you a lawyer.
A little smirk tugs at the corners of Duke’s mouth.
Betsey: Yeah, I’m definitely putting you in charge here. Andrew can just fuck the hell right off. He has no idea what he’s doing. You’re the one they all take orders from.
Duke smirks again, but says nothing. Betsey looks at his nephew, Jay.
Betsey: I mean, you can stay if you want to, but I don’t really think you understand what you’re getting yourself into here. This place is a Grade-A Monet. It seems really cool from far away, but up close it’s just a big ol’ mess. Do you really want to stay?
Jay: I really want to stay.
Betsey: Okay, cool.
Betsey looks at the Rat-Rat.
Betsey: I knew you before you started working here. I thought you were cool. I know the only reason you’re acting like a douchebag is because you’re under the influence of Andrew. I can tell that you sincerely love this bar just as much as I do and want to make it a better place. You have a lot of good ideas that aren’t being heard. That’s why I’m letting you stay.
The Rat-Rat nods and smiles at her appreciatively. Betsey takes a moment to take a deep breath and finally turns to the Owl. She promptly hands him another envelope full of cash she stole from Andrew while he was passed out on the couch.
Betsey: Vegas, baby. Fuckin’ Vegas.
The Owl: [breaks out into a fit of maniacal laughter, spreads his wings, and disappears into the night]
Betsey promptly hires a brand new, hot, young team comprised of an equal number of male and female bartenders. She actually takes the time to train them so they can make good drinks. She changes the locks so The Key Club can’t keep the bar all to themselves on Sundays. Then she writes the drink specials on the board, advertises them on all the social media accounts where the kids can actually see them, designs some new t-shirts, and orders a fuckton of new swag. At long last, Bloody Mary’s Bar finally starts to live up to its oh-so-legendary hype and earns back all the awesome bar awards it won before the owner stopped giving a fuck. Once again, the bar is so awesome, the line to get in on weekends is trailing around the block, just as it was the first time Betsey ever went there eight years ago.
And they all lived happily ever after.