The ghost of Franklin Pierce and a shaochilong walked into a bar. The raucous crowd fell silent.
Pierce drifted over to an open stool and the shaochilong stood nearby.
“Two whiskeys,” Pierce said casually.
The bartender reached for a shotgun hidden under the counter.
“Don’t worry about me,” the shaochilong offered and nodded toward Pierce. “I’m just a figment of his imagination. The pink elephants were all booked.”
“So, you’re just a drunk?” the bartender asked Pierce.
The dead president smiled and the festive atmosphere returned.
“I was worried for a second,” the bartender chuckled as he poured two whiskeys.