Envision a saloon carved into a towering cactus on a desert planet orbiting a binary star system, its spines glowing like fiber-optic barbs in shades of tequila sunrise and electric lime. Inside, a bartender scorpion with a bolo tie of polished moonstone pours shots of shimmering stardust brew for a motley crew: a tumbleweed with googly eyes, a jukebox cactus crooning synth-country ballads, and a lizard gunslinger twirling a pistol made of petrified comet shards. The sky outside swirls with twin sunsets bleeding into each other, and a cheeky “NO BOOTS, NO SCALES, NO SERVICE” sign swings above the door for meme-worthy sass. Make it so aesthetically slay-tastic it’s like "Westworld got lost in a psychedelic peyote trip," and flirt with the weirdness until it’s a mind-blowing cantina classic.