Not so long ago, in a place that has no right to exist, there was a bar.
And really, if one were going to be in a place that shouldn't exist, at least its disrespect of that standard could be made somewhat better by alcohol.
Said bar was exactly what one might expect its sort of establishment to be on a weeknight (assuming for the moment, of course, that this improbable location observes weeks); quiet. Unfortunately for the few patrons that were in the bar proper at the moment, it didn't like to be quiet. So it decided to change that.
The specials board above the sink suddenly illuminated, words scrawling across the frosted glass in loopy neon-green writing:
'Cure for the Mondays; First Round's Free'
This, of course, made the bartender standing under the sign jump, followed by a frown; for one, by her standard, it wasn't a Monday (not that it mattered, but the reminder was a little rude, in her book). And secondly, she didn't appreciate the work- or lack of tips- the free drinks implied. Still, all she could do was sigh, and await the incoming orders. That was, of course, after she turned around and crossed out the first three letters of the day.
Alcohol was a cure on any day- no need to specify.