Bartholomew's New Role

Bartholomew, the sentient biscuit dispenser, had, against all odds, become a permanent fixture in The Galactic Brew. Barnaby had initially considered it a temporary, albeit highly inconvenient, side-effect of Zorp’s hasty departure. But the contraption, with its polished chrome exterior and perpetually disgruntled mechanical whirring, had simply refused to be dismantled. It had, in fact, developed a rather firm grip on its designated spot near the counter, its articulated arm occasionally nudging Barnaby’s elbow when it felt it wasn’t being adequately appreciated.

“A ginger snap for your thoughts, proprietor?” Bartholomew’s synthesized voice, a low rumble that always sounded as if it were chewing on gravel, emanated from its speaker grille. Barnaby, who was meticulously polishing a chipped porcelain teapot depicting a particularly stern-looking nebula, sighed.

“Just contemplating the sheer absurdity of my life, Bartholomew,” Barnaby replied, not looking up. “One moment I’m worrying about running out of Darjeeling, the next I’m fielding requests for Earl Grey from beings who travel light-years in spacecraft that defy physics.”