“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.