Fair warning, this is less a story and more a narrative. An angry, cursing, rambling, narrative about drinking and fighting. Seriously, lots of swearing. It’s also for Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge of the week A Drink with a Story, A Story with a Drink.
by Rick Cook Jr
I’ve never been able to fight, let’s just get that out of the way right now. The number of times I’ve curled up into a ball to avoid the worst of the kicks is equal to the number of times I’ve gotten into a fight.
I tried to learn karate, or… judo, or something. I don’t know. It was hard. The sensei or whatever was a real dick. I quit and then took a piss in his gas tank. Well, I tried. Just ended up with a kidney punch and piss all over my karate outfit.
But I did figure out a little something that turned me into the Terminator. If the Terminator was a little bitch. But yeah. Just keeps on coming and always gets you in the end.
Let me explain so that I’m not just talking big. You see this? Yeah, no, it still hurts like hell sometimes. Got it last year at the bar down the street. They uh, they don’t let me in there anymore. I still send Shana in for their nachos sometimes. Fucking good nachos.
So anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, the Terminator. It’s really important that you already have like, I dunno, ten beers or five shots under your belt when you begin.
You take some caffeine pills, right? Crush ‘em up like you’re snorting a line of blow.
… A what? What the hell’s a mortar and pestle? Who are we bombing? No, shut up, never mind. Use your fuckin’ keys, for the love of-
God damnit, stop interrupting me! I’m getting to the point. Like you’ve never heard a story before.
Crush up the caffeine pills with whatever the hell you’ve got handy. Put that in the bottom of a glass. Yeah, I guess, if they call it a tumbler. I call it a fucking glass.
So you have your upper. Two or three oughta do you for a night, but Shana tells me it messes up your kidneys. Or was it your liver? I dunno, who cares, you’re pissing blood by the end of the night anyway.
Dump an ice cube or two in there, with a shot of the cheapest tequila you can find. Then another half-shot of something clear, but equally cheap. We’re talking real bottom shelf here. Gin, Scotch, whatever, really. Don’t use Ouzo, though, shit’ll make you sick.
Point of fact, don’t ever drink Ouzo. Pretentious Turks. … Who? Who gives a shit who makes it, Turks, Greeks, Russians, they don’t know shit about alcohol if they drink that, is all I’m saying. All right, so we got your upper and a couple of what I like to call rage fuels, ‘cause people are always out for blood after a few shots.
Now this is where it gets fun. When the bartender is serving all the cute girls at the end of the bar, you add a little more rage fuel on the house. It’s important that you not pay for any more rotgut at this point, because you’re about to cost the bar a whole helluva lot more than a few bucks in watered down dirt tequila.
Find some fruity shit behind the bar, too. You need it to cut all that horrible, cheap liquor anyway, so might as well get something that tastes good. Some kinda cherry something-or-other, I dunno what they call it. Either way, you get that, put some in your tumbler, and then just kinda swish it around so the caffeine isn’t floating like dandruff in your drink.
This is the important part. Take that drink, knock the whole thing back and suck one of the ice cubes into your mouth. Two if they’re small enough. Swallow all that sauce and then find the biggest group of guys who look like they want to kick someone’s ass, and then you chew up that ice cube and spit it at the leader like you’re that godamned dinosaur from Jurassic Park spewing black shit all over Newman’s stupid fat face.
If you’re lucky, your body is drunk enough to stop feeling pain. Adrenaline and caffeine will keep you going long after your broken limbs should be crying out for help. You’ll get thrown out of the bar along with all the dudes you’re about to get your ass kicked by, and being out in public makes it more likely the cops will show up and keep you from getting murdered.
Yeah, I’ve got several restraining orders. And three bars have an eject on sight policy.
… Why what? Why not? The Terminator, it doesn’t help you win fights, it just helps you stand back up after you’ve probably got internal bleeding. It gives you that little extra you need to kick that fucker in the nuts as hard as you can when he thinks you’re finally down for the count.
Yeah, that night I kicked the dude so hard he had to have surgery on his balls. So they kicked me in the nuts a few times, rubbed my face in my own vomit, and broke my shoulder.
Then when they were helping their buddy up I got back up and did one of those wrestling dives where you throw yourself at a crowd sideways to knock ‘em all down and get the advantage.
What? No, of course it didn’t work. But I managed to kick them a few more times before they staggered away to the nearest hospital, bitching and moaning about the crazy guy. I’m pretty sure, and this might be the booze talking, but I’m almost positive that when I have the Terminator inside me I become a fucking ninja. A piss-drunk whirlwind of fists and feet. I should probably start a YouTube channel for all the awesome flips and spin kicks and shit I do.
What do you mean, did I press charges? Why the hell would I do that? Heh, actually, I ended up at the same hospital as them. I still play Call of Duty with them sometimes.
I actually can’t remember if they named the drink after me, or the other way around. Either way, you’re pretty much guaranteed a night of, well, you’ll probably die. Seriously, don’t try this shit. Listen to my shoulder, it still clicks when I raise my arm. Like it’s a robot arm. A Terminator arm.
Now seriously, what the fuck is a mortar and pestle?
All right, so the challenge was to create a cocktail and write a story that featured the cocktail in some way, whether it was central to the plot or whatever. I chose kind of a weird way to tell the story, but enjoyed writing it all the same. I genuinely doubt the drink will taste good, or even be something people should ever try, so don’t fucking try this, okay?
– 2 to 3 caffeine pills, crushed to powder with whatever’s handy. Yeah, a hammer would work. Why do you have a hammer on you?
– 1 oz. horribly cheap tequila. If your college-poor friends won’t even drink it, that’s the one you want.
– 1 oz. clear liquor, also as cheap as you can find. In a pinch rubbing alcohol will do. Pretty sure that’s what cheap vodka is anyway.
– as many more ounces of that cheap tequila as you can successfully steal from the bartender. Come on, he’s not even watching right now.
– Grenadine. I don’t know how much. Just pour until the glass is full.
Serve over two ice cubes in a tumbler, apparently. Swish the drink and then chug it all down. It’s gross and dangerous anyway. Begin the fighting.