The bartender, a big man with a thick mustache that curls up at the ends, stops what he’s doing. He looks at the duck, then looks again. “Wait a minute!” he says, his voice full of surprise. He picks up a glass and starts polishing it with a cloth. “You’re… a duck!”
The bartender’s eyebrows go up so high they almost disappear under his hat. “And you can talk!” he says, nearly dropping the glass he’s holding.
“Indeed,” the duck says, “And I think your hearing is working well, too. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d really like my beer and sandwich.”
“Oh, right, of course! Sorry about that,” the bartender says, trying to act normal. He starts pouring the duck’s beer. “It’s just… we don’t see ducks in here very often. What brings you to this part of town?”
“I’m working on the building site across the street,” the duck explains, taking a sip of his beer. “I’m a plasterer.”
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