In a dimly lit pub by the docks, Popeye burst through the door, his pipe clenched tightly between his teeth. He had one thing on his mind: a "Popeye's Toilet," the pub's infamous drink, a concoction of slime-green spinach, absinthe, and a splash of the cheapest vodka to keep him "humble." The bartender, knowing his routine, slid the glass across the bar as soon as he saw him.

  Popeye knocked back the drink with a grimace and a shudder, feeling the familiar rush of strength and a bizarre clarity that the green liquid always gave him. As he wiped his mouth, his eyes landed on a familiar figure causing a commotion at the far end of the bar.

  Bluto, the perennial thorn in Popeye's side, was looming over what looked like a mop propped up in the corner. Bluto, drunk and belligerent, seemed to be harassing the poor object, mistaking it for a damsel in distress.

  Popeye narrowed his eyes and made his way over, the crowd parting for him as they sensed an impending showdown.

  "What? What?!" Bluto slurred as he noticed Popeye approaching. "I can't just be at a bar? I can't just enjoy a fucking drink and talk to the ONE female in this realm!? You know what? Fuck you, Popeye! Take some of this!"

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  Bluto, in a rage, swung a fist at Popeye, but Popeye was ready. The spinach-fueled sailor dodged the blow effortlessly, then delivered a punch that sent Bluto sprawling across the bar, crashing into tables and chairs like a wrecking ball.

  Bluto groaned, trying to pick himself up from the wreckage. "Fuck it. I'm tired of this. Take her. Olive Oyl is yours. I'm moving to fucking Norway!" he muttered, defeated.

  Popeye scratched his head, confused. "Now just who is this Olive Oyl? You talkin' bout that gal over there moppin'? Oh shit, that is the mop. Haha. Nah, I'm kiddin'. I just don't like you, Bluto. Olive Oyl is garbage. You puff your chest out too much. Needed to be taken down a peg. Enjoy Norway."

  With that, Popeye turned and left the pub, humming his familiar tune, "I am what I am, and that's all what I am..."

  Meanwhile, Olive Oyl, having witnessed the whole scene from her corner, hesitantly approached the battered Bluto. "Get, get your goddamn hands off me!" Bluto snarled as she tried to help him up.

  "But it's me, your Olive!" she pleaded, her voice trembling.

  Bluto glared at her, rubbing his jaw. "Hey! You heard the guy, you're shit. I must've been at sea too long. On the positive, gotta remember to eat my greens," he grumbled, pushing her away as he staggered out of the bar, leaving Olive Oyl standing there, heartbroken.

  Popeye, already on his way back to his ship, took a deep breath of the salty air, content in his strange way. He knew he'd see Bluto again—after all, some things never really changed. But for now, he was just a sailor man, free to sail the seas, drink his spinach, and hum his song.