"Drink it, it's awesome." I waved the glass in her direction. She stared at
me, nervous and confused. This was clearly not what was supposed to happen on
the way home.
"Do it." I said as I thrust the two ounce, blue shot glass into her hands.
"Hurry up!"
She looked at the glass, looked at me, and raised it to her face. She gave it
a delicate sniff.
"It's just alcohol, quit being such a puss!" I hollered.
She furrowed her brow, clearly hurt by my angry words. I scowled back at her,
pantomiming a drinking motion. Tentatively, she raised the glass, parting her
lips the faintest bit. I reached out and lifted bottom of the glass up, the
liquid poured out over her face. She opened her mouth instinctively, trying to
drink the mystery liquid rather than letting to go to waste. She looked
panicked for a second; her mouth was clearly burning, the stinging vapours
wafting up the back of her nostrils. She gagged. She leaned over, her hand and
chin dripping alcohol onto the street. She grimaced at the fiery sensation in
her mouth. I grinned at her.
"Swallow it!" I said, thrilled my my own cleverness.
She exhaled through her nostrils, hard; her hot breath coalescing in the
frosty air. Droplets still fell from her chin. She stared at me imploringly,
desperate to know what was in her mouth.
"Relax," I confided, pretending to read the label of the bottle. "It's just
Scottish gin, flavoured with heath, salmon, algae and...uh...rohypnol."
I had clearly made up the last part the last part to mess with her, but she
spewed out the liquid nonetheless. The smoky plume of alcohol and moist air,
illuminated by the nearby street light, looked rather dramatic.
"Oi," I shouted, slapping the glass from her hand, "that shot cost me a quid!"
In the darkness I could hear the glass tinkle against someone's home. She
stared at me, frozen in fear, still stooping over to avoid dribbling on her
clothes. I beamed at her beatifically.
"Don't worry," I said placatingly, "I'll pour you another one. And dry
yourself off, alcohol will dessicate your skin in weather like this."
She smiled wanly and stood up, wiping her face on her sleeve. As I fumbled in
my pocket for a new glass, I stared meaningfully at her chapped lips. She
nervously put her hand, hidden in her sleeve, against her lips.
"I hear they make a stick for chapped lips," I said conspiratorially. I
lowered my eyes and concentrated on pouring the next shot. She extracted some
lip balm from a pocket and uncapped it. She began to gently daub it on her
lips, her chipped nail polish glinting darkly in the cold, white light. "I'd
probably never use that stuff," I said, never looking up. "I hear it's made out
of badger musk." She stared at me.
"You know." I asserted, "the stuff they milk from a badger's anal glands? It
is what makes it so waxy." She hurriedly closed the balm and reconcealed it
about her person.
"Here," I thrust another glass in her direction. She took it but here eyes
looked over my shoulder, she was probably wondering how to reach her home.
"Drink! Drink!" I chanted. She hesitantly lifted the glass upward. As it
touched her pursed lips, I reached out for it again. She cringed and turned
away, so I clapped her heartily on the back. She coughed and inhaled a little
liquid.
"So," I cried gleefully as soon as the shot was in her mouth, "wanna know
what's really in it?" She turned back to face me, panic in her eyes, her
cheeks bulging with the fluid. I gesticulated frantically, trying to coax an
answer from her. A tiny rivulet of clear liquid trickled from between her lips
and down her chin. I clamped a hand over her mouth.
"Don't waste it!" I loudly reprimanded.
She looked up at me imploringly, her eyes streaming from the agony in her
mouth. Her nose dribbled onto my hand, I jerked it away.
"Gross," I stormed off into the night flailing my hand about impotently,
trying to remove the mucus. She followed, tugging my sleeve desperately,
trapped in a caustic oral limbo.
"Now don't worry," I assured her happily, turning back to face her, "it's
clearly not full of rohypnol. You can taste rohypnol."
She nodded overjoyed that it was not rohypnol, eyes wild and hands clutching
my arm. I stood for a moment, peering into her soft, sad eyes, trying to guage
them. She wordlessly begged me, her face a picture painted without guile or
malice.
"Let me ask you this," I said, assuming a sagely posture, "what does sodium
pentathol taste like?"
She looked at me blankly.
"It's a barbituate?" I tried.
More blankness. She stamped her feet urgently, the situation was clearly
dire.
"Fine," I said resignedly, "I'm sure you've heard of ketamine."
She nodded, a dim look of hope flickered across her face. I could tell she
was fairly certain this was a joke.
"Yeah well...eh." I trailed off, bored. "I'm going over here now," I
pointed back the way she had come.
As I sauntered away, I could feel her eyes on my back, still pleading for an
answer. I opened my ears and absorbed the night sounds: an alley cat exploring
some garbage; a lorry grumbling somewhere in the distance; the muffled gibberish
of a neighbour's TV; an ounce of gin splashing softly on the pavement.
"Oi!" was my reply.
I halted beneath the streetlight, my grubby hair glowing like a greasy halo.
I extended my arm towards the dark street and beckoned her over. I could just
barely make out her figure, paralyzed with indecision. Would she flee down
street toward the safety of home or obey me. I decided to tip the scales.
"Come here," I demanded, too loudly for the hour.
She walked timidly towards me, squinting in the bright light.
"You owe me two god damned pounds," I growled. She stood timidly before me,
so I leaned in and pressed my forehead against hers, causing her slowly cower.
"Stand up when I talk to you!" I shouted madly, waving my arms about.
She stepped back, eyes on her feet. I slapped the glass violently from below,
rocketing it up into the night. She clasped at her hand, stung by this violent
rebuke. The glass shattered on the ground between us, tiny sparkling fragments
cascading over my boots.
"'Two dollars'," I quoted.
She fumbled about in her pocket, removing the lip balm, a mobile and finally a
fiver. Her soft eyes darted up to mine and she opened her mouth to speak.
"RAWR," I screamed, flinging my bottle over her head. I fixed her with a
meaningful stare, "you owe me for those two glasses as well." There was a
popping explosion down near her house. "...and a bottle of GHB."
She silently pulled a few more notes from her pocket and held them, rumpled
up, at arms length. I snatched them.
"Eww, they're all warm and clammy," I inspected her suspiciously. "I can't
make change," I mused, "but I know a pub near here where we can get some
singles. Plus he'll do us a few shots of something that's not spiked."
I crammed my arm under hers and set off purposefully into the night. She
trembled hesitantly, almost pulling away. I looked behind me, her eyes
following mine, towards the safety of her home. It was only 50 feet away, a
lamp throwing warm yellow light into the street. I glowered at the back of her
head until she turned to face me, her eyes limpid pools. I spat violently in
the direction of her house, this seemed to shatter her resistance. I stomped
off in the direction of the public house, trying to remember when it shut. She
trailed helplessly behind behind me, tethered to my waist by her arm.