tequila

by Bill Tiepelman

The Agave Whisperer

The Barrel-Bottom Prophet It was said in the whisperiest of taverns — between shots of regret and beers of poor decisions — that somewhere deep in the groves of Tuscagave, there lived a gnome who could speak to tequila. Not about tequila. To it. And worse still... it whispered back. His name was Bartó the Brash, and legend had it he was born in a bootleg still, cradled in blue agave husks, and teethed on fermented lime peels. The midwife had slapped his ass, and he belched a perfect margarita mist. His mother passed out from pride. Or mezcal. Or both. Bartó lived alone, if you didn’t count the raccoons (whom he called his “spirit consultants”) and the near-empty bottle of Tequila Yore N. Abort he carried like a talisman. He claimed the bottle contained the voice of an ancient agave god named Chuchululululul — or “Chu” for short — who had chosen him as the last Tequilamancer, a sacred order long disbanded due to liver failure and questionable pants choices. “I don’t drink to forget,” Bartó would slur at passing squirrels, “I drink to remember what the hell I’m meant to be doing.” Then he’d usually pass out face-first into a cactus and have visions of the future, or at least hallucinate himself into a screaming match with a talking gecko wearing a fedora. But fate — that wobbly barstool of destiny — was about to spin beneath him. On a morning dripping in sun and hangover dew, Bartó squinted into the olive grove horizon and saw it: a caravan of bureaucrats in beige capes, clipboards clenched like holy relics. The Department of Magical Overreach and Beverage Regulation (DMOBR) had arrived — and they were pissed. “Unauthorized intoximancy! Public incantation while under the influence! Summoning of unlicensed limes!” barked the lead official, a sour-faced elf named Sandra with a severe bob and the moral flexibility of a corkscrew. “You, sir, are a fermenting menace!” “Oh please,” Bartó scoffed, adjusting his mossy, sagging hat. “I’ve fermented things that would make your clipboard cry.” Sandra raised a pen. “By the authority of subsection 3B of the Intoxicating Enchantments Code, I hereby revoke your right to whisper to any agave-derived spirit for a period not less than—” CRACK! Lightning struck a nearby clay jug. A sizzling bolt carved the words “BITE ME” into the side of an olive tree. Chu, the bottle god, was awake. “OH SH*T,” Bartó grinned. “He’s back.” The tequila began to glow. The raccoons began to chant. The olives rolled uphill. Somewhere, a mariachi band formed out of thin air. And just like that, our story — soaked in alcohol, mischief, and prophecy — had begun. The Rise of the Drunken Oracle As the tequila bottle pulsed with a holy light that smelled vaguely of lime zest and bad decisions, the air around Bartó the Brash thickened like a triple-distilled vision quest. The gnome stood — or rather, teetered confidently — on the barrel like a demented squirrel messiah, arms raised high, eyes crossed but determined. “Chu has spoken,” he announced, “and he says you’re all a bunch of cork-sniffing, oak-aged fun vampires.” Sandra, lead pencil-pusher of DMOBR, adjusted her clipboard with bureaucratic menace. “That bottle is unauthorized and unregistered. Its mouthpiece—you—are in direct violation of thirteen beverage communion laws, four forbidden fermentation rites, and one very specific restraining order involving a sacred cactus.” “That cactus liked it,” Bartó muttered under his breath, then belched out a tiny lightning bolt. A nearby stone frog sculpture twitched and winked. The raccoons began circling in a loose formation resembling a pentagram made entirely of bad intentions and spilled mezcal. Their eyes glowed with a dangerous mix of mysticism and dumpster trauma. One was wearing a tiny cape made from a bar mat that said "Lick, Sip, Regret." From the tequila bottle came the rumbling voice of Chu — ancient, boozy, and oddly flirtatious. “THE AGAVE AWAKENS. THE TIME OF DISTILLED PROPHECY IS NIGH. BRING ME TACOS.” Bartó gasped. “It’s the Prophecy of the Blistered Tongue!” Sandra rolled her eyes so hard they almost filed a complaint. “There is no such prophecy. That was debunked in a 2007 memo titled ‘Delirium-Driven Distillery Delusions.’” “Delusions?! You bureaucratic bottle cap!” Bartó roared. “I have seen visions in the foam of my beer, heard sermons in the slosh of a margarita! I AM THE AGAVE WHISPERER!” He chugged from the bottle like a man possessed by both the divine and several questionable life choices. The sky dimmed. Olive trees trembled. Somewhere in the distance, a goat screamed in what might have been Latin. BOOM! A wave of golden vapor exploded from the bottle and blasted across the grove. Everyone within a fifty-foot radius was hit with a sudden wave of intoxicated clairvoyance. One elf dropped to his knees sobbing about his childhood toothbrush. Another began giggling and drawing phallic doodles in the dirt with his wand. Sandra’s clipboard snapped in half. “This… this is unauthorized revelatory broadcasting!” “This,” Bartó grinned, “is happy hour at the end of the f*cking world.” And with that, he flung the bottle skyward. It hovered. Hovered! Swirling with magical carbonation, it began to rotate, casting symbols in the air — ancient agave runes, each one glowing and dripping with tequila logic. The runes formed into a flaming piñata goat, which promptly exploded into glitter and regret confetti. The raccoons began to chant in tongues. Literal tongues. They had stolen some from a taco truck. “We are the Chosen Few!” Bartó shouted. “We are the Drunk, the Damned, the Slightly Sticky! Rise, my festive minions! The world must be unbuttoned!” At this, the caravan of DMOBR agents began to panic. Their enchanted clipboards were now possessed by spirits (both bureaucratic and alcoholic), their regulation sashes turned into salsa-scented snakes, and several of them had started twerking involuntarily to an invisible mariachi band echoing through the hills. Sandra screamed. “Code Vermouth! I repeat, Code Vermouth!” Bartó, now somehow riding a summoned barrel like a tequila-powered chariot, pointed at her dramatically. “You wanna regulate joy? License laughter? Tax my farts? Over my pickled body!” Chu’s voice thundered once more. “ONE AMONG YOU SHALL SQUEEZE THE SACRED LIME. THEY SHALL UNCORK THE FINAL FIESTA.” A hush fell. Even the raccoons stopped licking their toes. Everyone stared at Bartó. His eyes sparkled. His beard blew dramatically in the wind. He dropped the tequila bottle into the crook of his arm like a baby made of danger. “I must find the Sacred Lime,” he whispered. “Only it can complete the Rite of the Salty Rim.” “That’s not a real thing,” Sandra snapped. “It is now,” Bartó said, then mounted his raccoon-pulled barrel chariot and disappeared into the grove at full squeaky wheel speed, laughing like a gremlin who just farted in a cathedral. The DMOBR team was left in stunned silence. Sandra stared at the bottle, now lying innocently in the dirt, leaking a faint trail of glowing liquid that spelled the word “WHEEEE” in cursive. The prophecy had begun. And Bartó the Brash? He was off to save the world — armed with only a bottle, some cursed citrus, and the unwavering belief that destiny was best pursued while hammered. The Sacred Lime & the End of the Pour Deep in the sunburnt olive groves of Tuscagave, under skies marbled with hangover clouds and divine indecision, Bartó the Brash thundered through the underbrush on his raccoon-powered barrel-chariot of destiny. His eyes were bloodshot with purpose. His beard? Windswept. His bottle? Glowing like a disco ball in a frat house bathroom. “THE SACRED LIME!” he cried, yanking hard on the reins (which were actually shoelaces tied to raccoon tails). “It calls to me!” “SQUEEEEE!” squealed the lead raccoon, who had been mainlining moonshine since breakfast and was now entirely committed to whatever this mission was. He tore through a grove of enchanted citrus trees, where oranges screamed motivational quotes and grapefruits sobbed about their father issues. But there, on a mossy pedestal carved from a petrified margarita glass, pulsed the Sacred Lime — the one foretold in soggy bar napkin prophecies and whispered about in inebriated dreams. It was perfect. Glossy. Green. Slightly smug. And guarded by a beast of legend: a giant horned badger with a salt-rimmed collar and a body carved from hardened party fouls. It reeked of expired guacamole and regret. Its name was only spoken in the lost language of Jell-O shots. “BEHOLD!” Bartó yelled, drawing forth his corkscrew wand. “I demand tequila-based trial by combat!” The badger hissed like a shaken can of LaCroix and lunged. Bartó countered with a savage swirl of his tequila bottle, spraying a hypnotic mist that hit the beast right in the dignity. It staggered, disoriented, and tripped over a lime wedge from 1983. “Chug, raccoons, chug!” Bartó bellowed. The raccoons formed a circle, chanting and doing something that looked suspiciously like a conga line of doom. He seized the Sacred Lime and held it aloft. The heavens parted. Trumpets farted a triumphant tune. Somewhere, a mariachi band combusted into pure joy. Chu’s voice echoed once more from the tequila bottle: “YOU HAVE THE LIME. NOW UNCORK THE FINAL FIESTA.” “Oh, we’re about to fiesta so hard the gods will need aspirin,” Bartó whispered with a drunken reverence only achievable at blood-alcohol levels considered biologically implausible. He rolled back into town like a legend carved from leftover nachos, raccoons flanking him like intoxicated bodyguards. The villagers of Tuscagave were already halfway through their annual Tax-Free Liquor Festival and thus barely blinked at the sight of their drunken savior astride a squeaky wheel of destiny. Sandra, DMOBR’s fun-hating elf enforcer, awaited him at the gates, looking slightly more frazzled and extremely more sticky than last we saw her. “You’ve violated more ordinances than the Great Whiskey Riots of 1824,” she spat. “What say you in your defense, gnome?” “I say this,” Bartó declared. He raised the Sacred Lime in one hand, the tequila bottle in the other. “Let the world know: regulation without celebration is just constipation in a cocktail glass.” He squeezed the lime into the bottle. Time stopped. Reality hiccupped. A geyser of fluorescent tequila shot into the air like a golden volcano of freedom. It rained down on Tuscagave like divine margarita mist. People screamed. People stripped. One man achieved enlightenment while motorboating a vat of salsa. The olive trees danced. The raccoons ascended. Sandra’s clipboard melted into a poem about forgiveness and nachos. The Final Fiesta had begun. And what a fiesta it was. For seven days and six blurry nights, the world paused for celebration. Debts were forgiven, enemies made out in alleyways, and the moon was replaced with a glowing disco lime. Bartó became both messiah and cautionary tale, immortalized in limericks, bar songs, and a regrettable tattoo on someone’s buttock in a village far away. When the fog of booze and prophecy finally cleared, the town was different. Happier. Wilder. Sticky. Bartó the Brash? He vanished into the hills, bottle in hand, raccoons in tow. His final words to Sandra (who, by then, had retired from DMOBR to open a margarita spa for burned-out auditors) were simple: “If the lime fits… squeeze it.” And from that day forward, bartenders in every realm would raise their glasses to the sky and whisper a toast to the Agave Whisperer — gnome, oracle, and sacred party goblin. May your salt be fine, your lime be sacred, and your hangovers blessed with purpose. Fin.     Take Bartó home with you! Immortalize the legendary Agave Whisperer on something equally bold and occasionally questionable. Whether you're sipping inspiration or summoning chaos, we've bottled his mischievous magic into a wood print worthy of a cantina wall, or a sleek acrylic print that glows with prophecy and poor decisions. Need something for your wild journeys? Sling the tote bag over your shoulder and smuggle sacred limes like a true believer. Prefer your revelations in doodle form? The spiral notebook is perfect for recording drunken prophecies and raccoon conspiracy theories. And if you just want to slap Bartó’s face somewhere totally inappropriate, there’s always the sticker. Go ahead — join the cult of Chu. Tequila not included… but strongly encouraged.

by Bill Tiepelman

Last Call at Gnome O’Clock

The Pint-Sized Provocateur There are taverns, and then there’s The Pickled Toadstool, a place so off-the-grid not even Google Maps could find it. Buried beneath a crooked willow stump at the far edge of Hooten Hollow, this snug little den of wooden stools, sticky floors, and questionable liqueurs was a well-kept secret among woodland folk. It had only two rules: no goblins on Thursdays, and if Old Finn the gnome is drinking tequila—just let him. Old Finn wasn’t just a regular. He was the reason the barkeep kept lime wedges in stock and the wallpaper perpetually smelled of salt and bad decisions. Clad in a lopsided red cap and a waistcoat that hadn't seen a button in decades, Finn was a legend, a cautionary tale, and a frequent health violation all rolled into one. He wasn't technically old—gnomes lived forever if they stayed away from lawnmowers—but he sure drank like he had nothing left to prove. On the night in question, Finn stumbled into The Pickled Toadstool with a swagger only the irreparably inebriated could pull off. He kicked open the acorn-hinged door, paused dramatically under the threshold like some kind of pointy-shoed gunslinger, and belched a wordless threat into the room. A hush fell. Even the pixies stopped mid-flutter. "I want," he said, pointing a stubby, gnarled finger at nobody in particular, "your finest bottle of whatever makes me forget the mating call of the red-breasted swamp goose." Jilly the bar-maiden, a flirty mushroom sprite with an eyebrow ring and zero patience, rolled her eyes and reached beneath the bar. Out came a bottle of Murkwood Gold—gnome-grade tequila, aged three months in a chipmunk skull and rumored to be illegal in three realms. She didn’t even bother pouring. She just handed it over like it was a loaded weapon. Finn grinned, popped the cork with his teeth, and took a swig so violent it made the tavern’s only decorative fern faint. He thumped his shot glass on the table (though he'd brought his own from a previous bar fight), sliced a lime with a blade he kept in his boot, and shouted, “TO BAD DECISIONS AND IRRITABLE BOWELS!” The cheer that followed shook the roots of the tree overhead. A hedgehog slurred something about streaking, a satyr passed out before he could object, and someone (no one ever admits who) summoned a conga line that trampled an entire chess game in progress. Chaos bloomed like a moldy turnip—and Finn was at the center, drunker than a troll at Oktoberfest, eyes twinkling like a raccoon who just found an unlocked dumpster. But as the night pressed on, the tequila ran low, the music got weirder, and Finn started asking existential questions no one was prepared to answer, like “Have you ever seen a squirrel cry?” and “What’s the moral weight of drinking pickle brine for money?” And that’s when things took a turn… Tequila Revelations and Mushroom Revelry Now, let’s be clear about something: when a gnome starts philosophizing with a half-empty bottle of Murkwood Gold and a lime wedge clutched in one hand like it’s an emotional support citrus, it’s time to either run or record the whole damn thing for folklore. But none of the drunken degenerates in The Pickled Toadstool had the good sense—or sobriety—for either. So instead, they leaned in. Finn had planted himself atop the bar like a prophet of the porcelain throne, beard stained with tequila dribbles, one boot missing, the other mysteriously containing a goldfish. He pointed to a confused possum wearing a monocle—Sir Slinksworth, who was mostly there for the free peanuts—and bellowed, “YOU. If mushrooms can talk, why don’t they ever text back?” Sir Slinksworth blinked once, adjusted his monocle, and slowly backed away into a broom closet, where he’d remain for the rest of the evening pretending to be a coat rack. Finn’s gaze swept the bar. He grabbed a nearby spoon and raised it like a conductor’s wand. “Ladies. Gentlefolk. Illegally sapient fungi. It’s time... for stories.” A cricket played a dramatic sting on a nearby leaf. Someone farted. And with that, the bar fell silent again as Finn leaned into his legend. “Once,” he began, wobbling slightly, “I kissed a troll under a bridge. She was beautiful in a ‘will definitely murder me’ kind of way. Hair like seaweed and breath like fermented cabbage. Mmm. I was young. I was stupid. I was... unemployed.” Jilly, wiping down the counter with something that might have once been a towel, muttered, “You’re still unemployed.” “Technically,” he countered, “I’m a freelance beverage tester and spiritual consultant.” “Spiritual consultant?” “I consult the spirits. They say, ‘drink more.’” The tavern erupted in cackles. A pixie fell off her stool and knocked over a bowl of glowing slugnuts. A squirrel danced on the bar with two acorns strategically placed where no acorns should be. The conga line had long since devolved into interpretive crawling, and a raccoon was vomiting behind a potted plant named Carl. But then came the lime. No one knows who started it. Some say it was Old Gertie, the barkeep’s pet newt. Others blame the twins—two bipedal weasels named Fizz and Gnarle who’d been banned from three fairy communes for “excessive nibbling.” But what’s certain is this: the lime fight began with one innocent toss... and escalated into full-blown citrus warfare. Finn took a lime square to the forehead and didn't flinch. Instead, he popped it in his mouth and spat the rind out like a watermelon seed, hitting a unicorn in the ear. That unicorn had rage issues. Chaos leveled up. Glass shattered. Someone pulled out a kazoo. The tavern’s chandelier—actually just a tangled wad of spider silk and glowworms—collapsed onto a group of druids who were too busy singing Fleetwood Mac backwards to notice. The air turned thick with lime pulp and salt spray. Finn was hoisted onto the shoulders of two inebriated field mice and declared, by popular vote, the “Minister of Bad Timing.” He waved regally. “I accept this non-consensual nomination with grace and the promise of moderate destruction!” And so, Minister Finn presided over what became known in local legend as The Great Lime Rebellion of Hooten Hollow. By midnight, the bar was a war zone. By 2 a.m., it had become an impromptu poetry slam featuring a drunken centaur who rhymed everything with “butt.” By 3:30, the entire establishment had run out of tequila, salt, limes, and patience. That’s when Jilly rang the bell. A single clang that cut through the noise like a knife through overripe brie. “Last call, you creatures of chaos. Finish your drinks, kiss someone questionable, and get the hell out before I start turning people into decorative mushrooms.” Everyone groaned. Someone actually wept. Finn, still wobbling, now wearing a pirate hat that was definitely a lettuce leaf, raised his shot glass for one final toast. “To terrible choices!” he shouted. “To memories we won’t remember and regrets we’ll enthusiastically repeat!” And with that, the entire bar echoed him back with drunken reverence: “TO GNOME O’CLOCK!” Outside, dawn was beginning to pink the sky. The first birds chirped sweet songs of impending hangovers. The revelers stumbled out, glitter-covered, grass-stained, and partially pantsless—but deeply, sincerely content. Except Finn. Finn wasn’t done yet. He had one more idea. One more terrible, beautiful, lime-soaked idea. And it involved a wheelbarrow, a jug of honey, and the mayor’s prized goose... The Goose, the Glory, and the Gnome Morning dew shimmered on the blades of grass like the universe itself was hungover. A foggy mist rolled across Hooten Hollow, disturbed only by the faint wobble of a single squeaky wheel. That wheel belonged to a rusted, slightly bloodstained wheelbarrow, careening down a slope with all the grace of a goat in roller skates. And at its helm? You guessed it—Finn the gnome, grinning like a maniac who had absolutely no business operating farm equipment. The honey jug was strapped to his chest with twine. The mayor’s goose—Lady Featherstone the Third—was tucked under his arm like an indignant accordion. And the plan? Well, “plan” is a generous word. It was more of a tequila-induced vision involving revenge, animal pageantry, and a deeply misguided attempt to start a new religion centered around fermented agave and poultry-based wisdom. Let’s rewind five minutes. After being ceremoniously ejected from The Pickled Toadstool via slingshot (an annual tradition), Finn had landed squarely in a hedge and muttered something about “divine enlightenment via waterfowl.” He emerged covered in burrs, wild-eyed, and on a mission. That mission, as far as anyone could tell, involved honey-glazing the mayor’s prized goose and declaring her the reincarnation of a forgotten gnome goddess named Quacklarella. Now, Lady Featherstone was not your average goose. She was a biter. A seasoned one. Rumor had it she once chased a dwarf through three provinces for insulting her plumage. She’d survived two magical floods, a karaoke night gone wrong, and a brief stint as an underground fight club champion. She was not, in any realm, fit for religious exploitation. But Finn, drunk on ego and corn liquor he found behind a log, disagreed. He slathered the goose in honey, placed a crown made of cocktail umbrellas on her head, and stood atop a stump to deliver his sermon. “Fellow forest beings!” he declared to a bewildered audience of chipmunks and two hungover dryads. “Behold your sticky savior! Quacklarella demands respect, snacks, and exactly two minutes of synchronized honking in her honor!” The goose, now furious and glistening like a honey-glazed ham, honked once—an unholy, vengeful sound that triggered several squirrels into fight-or-flight responses. Then she snapped her beak shut around Finn’s beard and yanked. What followed was chaos, pure and sweet like the honey still clinging to his socks. The wheelbarrow overturned. Finn tumbled into a patch of stinging nettles. The goose ran off flapping into the sunrise, trailing cocktail umbrellas and gnome curses. The townsfolk woke to find feathers everywhere, the town bell ringing (no one knew how), and a pamphlet nailed to the mayor’s door entitled “Ten Spiritual Lessons from a Goose Who Knew Too Much.” It was mostly blank except for a drawing of a martini glass and a deeply unsettling haiku about egg salad. Later that day, Finn was found passed out in the town fountain wearing nothing but a monocle and a boot filled with mashed peas. He was smiling. When asked what the hell had happened, he opened one eye and whispered, “Revolution… tastes like poultry and shame.” Then he belched, rolled over, and began humming a slow, melodic version of “Livin’ on a Prayer.” That week, the mayor passed a motion banning both goose coronations and gnome-led sermons within town limits. Finn was put on probation, which meant nothing, as he hadn’t followed rules since the invention of pickled turnips. Still, to this day, when the moon is full and the lime trees bloom, whispers travel through Hooten Hollow. They say you can hear the flapping of honey-soaked wings and the faint sound of a shot glass being slammed on ancient oak. And if you’re very quiet... you might just catch a glimpse of a bearded figure staggering through the woods, muttering about limes and lost royalty. Because some legends wear crowns. Others ride noble steeds. And some? Some wear a lettuce hat and rule the night... one bad decision at a time.     Bring the legend home: If Finn’s tequila-fueled chaos made you snort, giggle, or question your life choices, you're in good company. Commemorate this tipsy tale with exclusive merch from our Last Call at Gnome O’Clock collection. Whether you're into crisp metal prints, cozy wood prints, a cheeky greeting card to send to your drinking buddy, or a spiral notebook for your own questionable ideas—this collection captures every ounce of forest-fueled mischief and lime-soaked nonsense. Warning: may inspire spontaneous conga lines and unsolicited sermons.