Mattheus’s first investment after Tim left was a cooler box and two packs of ice.
The entire purchase cost him 22 SP, which felt rather expensive for what was essentially a plastic box filled with frozen water, but it was a necessary purchase.
Wine and liquor could be served at room temperature, but beer and soft drinks could not—or at least they should not.
Mattheus put several cans of soda and bottles of beer into the cooler, covered them with ice, and nodded in satisfaction.
“Look at that.
We are practically a respectable establishment now.”
He still did not have a bathroom, a sink, running water, or more than three seats, but at least his customers could complain about those things while drinking a cold beer.
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, and Mattheus spent most of it leaning against the counter and examining the app.
There were hundreds of upgrades available, though examining them only made him painfully aware of how poor he was.
He could change the location connected to the pub’s entrance, for example.
That would allow him to move the door away from Gotham and place it somewhere safer—preferably Metropolis, or perhaps a peaceful little town where costumed lunatics did not routinely kidnap people.
Unlocking that function cost 100,000SP.
Mattheus stared at the price and counted the zeros once and then twice, hoping that one might disappear out of pity—it did not.
“One hundred thousand points just to move a door?” he complained.
“For that price, it better open directly into Superman’s living room.”
Now that was an interesting thought; he might come back to it after getting the SP (imagine Batman’s reaction if the door to a random pub appeared in his cave).
The other upgrades were not much cheaper: expanding the pub cost 2,000SP per square metre and even adding enough space for another table would cost more than he currently had.
His first real objective was a bathroom.
Nothing fancy—just a toilet and a small sink in a separate room and that would cost him 4,450 SP.
Mattheus glanced at the three stools in front of him.
“At my current rate, you lot better have strong bladders.”
He moved on to the Store.
Food, drinks, furniture, electronics, clothes, medicine, superpowers, magic—the Store seemed to sell everything, from everyday needs to bloodlines.
Mattheus found himself browsing the weapons section—he was in Gotham, after all.
The cheapest firearm available cost 180 SP.
That was not much compared to the price of the upgrades, but it was more than he was willing to spend when he still needed to purchase stock, food, and somewhere to sleep.
Besides, he had never used a gun before.
Owning one without knowing how to handle it sounded like an excellent way to accidentally shoot himself in the foot.
He settled for a stun gun instead.
30SP vanished from his balance, and the weapon appeared inside his Inventory.
Mattheus retrieved it, inspected the safety switch, and tested it once.
Electricity crackled between the prongs and he immediately switched it off.
After his recent experience with lightning, the sound was not particularly comforting.
Still, it was better than having nothing.
Mattheus placed the stun gun beneath the counter where he could reach it quickly.
“Armed and dangerous,” he declared.
Too bad there was no one there to hear how cool he sounded.
Two—or perhaps three—hours after Tim left, the door handle moved again.
Mattheus straightened behind the counter, one hand drifting beneath it until his fingers rested near the stun gun.
The door opened, and two men entered.
The first was a broad-shouldered, stocky man in his early forties.
He had a thick neck, a powerful build, and a slightly heavy waist.
His dark hair was combed back, and a stubble covered a square, rugged face with a prominent nose and thick eyebrows.
His olive skin and features made Mattheus think he was Italian—or at least partly Italian.
He wore suit trousers, a white shirt with several buttons undone, and a dark jacket that looked as though it had spent most of the day crushed against the back of a car seat.
The second man was much younger—a skinny blond lad with brown eyes who looked to be around Mattheus’s age.
He was dressed more casually and appeared very unimpressed by the pub.
The older man looked at Mattheus, gave him a short nod, and walked directly to one of the stools.
The blond lad remained near the entrance, looking around at the nearly empty room.
“Come on, Tony,” he complained.
“We should go to Terry’s, not this hole in the wall.”
Tony settled onto the stool.
“There’s a bar here, isn’t there?”
“This place looks sketchy.”
Mattheus placed one hand over his chest.
“Firstly, this is a pub, not a bar,” he corrected.
“And I’m going for a particular vibe.”
The lad looked pointedly at the bare walls, three stools, and cooler box.
“A vibe?”
“Minimalist.
Have you heard of it?”
The older man—Tony—snorted.
“So you’re broke.”
“Pretty much,” Mattheus admitted with a charming smile.
Tony laughed and settled more comfortably onto the stool.
“All right, kid.
What beers you got?”
“Alhambra, Mahou, and Estrella Galicia.”
Tony raised an eyebrow.
“Spanish?”
“Authentic Spanish beer,” Mattheus confirmed.
“The same kind you could drink on a terraza in Sevilla.”
“I’ll have an Alhambra.”
Mattheus opened the cooler and pulled out one of the green bottles.
It was not as cold as it would have been after several hours inside a proper refrigerator, but the ice had done its job.
He opened the bottle and slid it across the counter.
Tony took a drink, and the blond lad watched him.
“Well?”
Tony glanced at the bottle before taking another sip.
“Not bad.”
That appeared to be enough for his companion.
With a reluctant sigh, the lad took the stool beside him.
“I’ll have one too.”
Mattheus opened another Alhambra and passed it over.
Tony took a longer drink, then stared thoughtfully at the label.
“Tastes just like I remember.”
“You’ve been to Spain?” Mattheus asked.
“Few times.
Long time ago.” Tony leaned one elbow on the counter.
“Used to go to Mallorca on vacation.”
“Good choice.
Mallorca is beautiful when it isn’t completely overrun by tourists.”
Tony laughed.
“You Spanish?”
“Half Spanish and half Italian.”
Tony extended a broad hand across the counter.
“Tony Bianchi.”
Mattheus shook it.
“Mattheus Garcia.”
“What brings you to America?”
“Life.”
Mattheus shrugged and reached beneath the counter for a bag of peanuts.
He poured some into two small plates and placed them in front of his customers.
“They’re included with the drinks.”
Tony accepted the answer without pressing him for more information, and Mattheus appreciated that.
He couldn’t exactly say that he arrived in Gotham after being hit by lightning without sounding completely insane.
But since this was DC…
that might not be that insane.
Tho thinking about it, he was not even certain whether he was physically in America.
The pub could be floating between dimensions for all he knew, with its door merely opening onto Gotham.
Tony ate a few peanuts.
“So which half’s Italian?”
“My mother’s side.
My nonna moved to Spain while she was pregnant with her.” Mattheus leaned against the counter.
“She died when I was four, though.
My Spanish grandparents raised me for most of my life, so I’m more familiar with that side of the family.”
Tony’s expression softened slightly.
“That’s a shame.”
Mattheus nodded.
“I remember a few things about her.”
“Where was she from?”
“Sicily.”
Tony sat a little straighter.
“Sicily?”
“Near Palermo.”
A broad grin spread across Tony’s face.
“Now that’s a proper place to be from.”
The blond lad rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath:
“Here we go.”
“What?” Tony demanded.
“You got something against Sicily?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.
I heard the disrespect.”
“Come on, T.”
Tony gave him a pointed look and the lad raised his hands in defeat.
“It’s Tony, kid.
Not that ‘T’ bullshit.”
Mattheus laughed.
Tony took great pride in being Italian, and Sicily in particular.
Had circumstances allowed it, he explained, he would have returned years ago.
He missed the weather, the food, the sea, and people who understood that dinner should not be hurried.
Mattheus agreed with him on the last point.
His yaya had considered anyone who ate in less than forty minutes to be either uncivilized or wrong in the head.
Dinner back in the day was a two-hour affair, starting at 21:00 and ending at 23:00.
Good old days.
The conversation flowed easily after that.
Tony was loud, confident, and had the rare ability to speak for ten minutes without making it feel as though he had been talking for more than two.
He had a story for nearly every subject and an opinion about everything else.
Mattheus liked him almost immediately.
The blond lad—whose name turned out to be Dean—contributed occasionally, although he appeared more interested in leaving than in listening to Tony and Mattheus compare Spanish and Italian food.
“Paella is good,” Tony admitted, “but you can’t compare it to a proper risotto.”
“Of course you can.”
“No.”
“I just did.”
“And you were wrong.”
“According to whom?”
Dean finished his beer and pushed away from the counter.
“I’m going.”
Tony glanced at him.
“Already?”
“We’ve been here forever.”
“It’s been an hour.”
“It feels longer.”
“That’s because you got no appreciation for good conversation.”
Dean looked at Mattheus.
“How much?”
Mattheus told him, and Dean paid before heading for the door.
The money disappeared from his hand the moment the transaction was completed, automatically converting into SP.
Dean paused with his hand on the brass handle.
“You coming, Tony?”
“In a while.”
Dean sighed, opened the door, and stepped back into Gotham.
Tony remained.
One beer became two, and two became several.
Mattheus joined him in eating peanuts and opened another packet when the first ran out.
They spoke about Spain, Italy, family, food, cars, music, and a dozen other subjects that led naturally into one another.
One moment they were discussing who was the best goalkeeper in history (Buffon, they both agreed on that one) and the next they were talking about the Beatles.
Tony never asked why Mattheus’s pub had no windows, or where the bathroom was, and Mattheus did not ask what Tony did for a living.
If his appearance was not obvious enough, the gun he carried on the back of his trousers sure was.
Many of Tony’s stories were altered mid sentence, very likely to avoid mentioning illegal activities and Mattheus did not ask questions—a pub owner needed to know when to listen and when to remain blissfully ignorant.
By the time Tony finally stood, several hours had passed.
He adjusted his jacket and placed his payment on the counter, along with a tip large enough to make Mattheus blink.
“You sure?”
Tony waved away the question and pointed a thick finger at him.
“Sei un bravo ragazzo (You’re an all-right kid).
Don’t let this city change that.”
Mattheus smiled.
“I’ll try.”
Tony gave him a final nod before walking to the door.
“And buy some proper Italian beer.”
“I’ll add it to the list.”
“Make sure you do.”
Tony opened the door and disappeared into the Gotham night.
The moment it closed behind him, Mattheus checked his phone: he had earned another 115 SP.
“Now that is what I call a good customer.”
Mattheus looked around the empty pub.
The ice in the cooler had begun to melt, the peanut plates were empty, and several beer bottles needed to be cleaned away.
It had not exactly been a busy evening, but it had been a good start.
Two groups of customers on his first day—and neither had attempted to rob, murder, or turn him into some sort of mutant.
By Gotham standards, business was going exceptionally well.
Mattheus cleaned the counter, disposed of the empty bottles through the Inventory, and checked the time.
It was late, and he was exhausted.
He opened the Pub Upgrades menu and removed the entrance.
The wooden door shimmered before disappearing into the wall, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.
It might have seemed excessive, but this was Gotham, and he was not about to wake up in the middle of the night to find that the Joker, Killer Croc, or some random burglar had wandered in.
Once the pub was sealed, Mattheus purchased the cheapest sleeping bag he could find.
It appeared in his Inventory a second later.
He spread it across the floor behind the counter and lay down.
It was not especially comfortable, but he had slept in worse places (better than camping in nature).
At least the wooden floor was clean, the room was warm, and no mosquitoes were buzzing around his ears.
Mattheus folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the single ceiling light.
That morning, he had been walking through his family’s fields beneath the Spanish sun and now he owned a tiny interdimensional pub connected to Gotham, had served drinks to a future superhero and a loud Italian criminal (Tony did not look like the usual supervillain thug, so he was probably part of one of the famiglias), and was sleeping behind a bar counter.
Life had become very strange, very quickly.
Mattheus reached for his phone and switched off the light through the app.
“Not a bad first day.”
And with that, the Multiversal Pub’s new owner closed his eyes and went to sleep.