Let's Talk About Worms
These things are simply everywhere. Land-worms, space-worms, delicious delicacies of the dark oceans and high peaks. Every planet has thousands of species. Every species is a treat. There are Nareworms, combworms, nutworms, meatworms, inside-outers, sluglusts, sandscrapers, anglechains, gurgle-fins, and glorm-glorms. Speller-worms are known to form letters or symbols to communicate familiar messages to their prey. Sharp-stripers are worms dressed in stripes with mouths like an anus and teeth like a cham-cham.
What doesn’t a worm make? These industrious little beasts are known across the galaxies for their resilient colonies, their odd shapes, and for their affection for flexi-straws and deathly-strong beverages. A worm loves something rotten as much as a worm likes something distilled. Their bars are the best to frequent, if one is lucky enough to fit within them, and not small enough to become food for the ever-present wormies. The saying goes, if a worm is close, so is a bar, and if a worm-bar is close, there goes your eyes. It is not a good saying, but it is said.
Worms drink, well, like worms! There’s no end to their limit. If they get too drunk, they excrete. Then they drink the excretion. One may stumble upon a well fed worm, drunk on rot, and squeeze the thing for all it’s got. Delicious. That is, of course, if it hasn’t been feasted on already.
Worm bars are like a factory of arpeggiated delight. A conveyor belt runs lengthwise over top of the bartop. The belt easily moves glasses from one worm to the next. The glasses are affixed to the belt. A hose system underneath the bar applies an almost worthless rinse to the glassware once it makes its way to the underbelly. A pump at the far side of the conveyor belt releases a glass worth of liquid rot into a passing glass, the system runs like clockwork.
The worms twist their bodies upright on cylindrical stools. All stools have the thick treads of a carpenter screw so that worms of all sizes can worm their way up to perch. The worms approach each glass by fixing their mouth to a flexi - straw. Each worm dips their straw into the next passing glass of drink on the belty. The passing glass gives a passing worm a chance to sip. The belt moves. Next glass. Another sip. And so on. Of course, worms have no issues with sharing glasses or straws as jealousy or fear or pride or germaphobia are far too complicated feelings for worms to indulge in. They know of hunger. They know of thirst. They very much like being drunk on rot.
The belt-bar was designed by Doctor Worm, who had a propensity for drumming, when not face down in his own drink. Doctor Worm was not a real Doctor, but he was an actual worm. The conveyor-belt bar system altered all of wormkind, across the universe. The flowing distribution of alcohol seemed even and never ending, and it made these industrious little beasts stick to perfect schedules. They drink when they’re done eating. They eat when they’re done digging. They dig when they’re done sleeping. They sleep when they’re done drinking. The cycle repeats.
They rage through the night, listening to disco - pulsating rhythm that entrances them into sheerly happy beings. They sip their straws and cross pollinate publicly, fertilizing the earth around them and one another. It’s all quite a vibrant scene. Loud music. Unintelligible conversation. Smiling worm faces. Ghostly worm eyes. They knock into one another. They twist themselves into knots. The population probably doubles. The disco reigns. There goes your eyes.