A Drunkard's Delight

Writing from the point of view of the man depicted below.

Today I experienced the absolute worst way of greeting a hangover. With a pounding head and a gut feeling like a rip tide, I awoke to a cacophenous clatter of bottles falling to the ground. Unsure of where I was, and having no recollection of how I arrived in such a perdicament, I immediately searched for an unopened bottle among those piled around me. This was my daily ritual ever since I became a high-functionning alcoholic. To my surprise, I found four, and drank the room-temperature liquid as quickly as possible. My attempts to cure my hangover did not prevail; feeling nauseous already, I purged the rapidly ingested alcohol, as well as last night's meal. As my hands began to quiver, my mood declined exponentially. My hope was that my friend who I was partying with would slip on the patch of regurgitated fermented beverages I had procured. Although this aspiration did not come to fruition, the "BOB WUZ HERE" and "Party Time" inscribed in permanent marker on his forehead lightened my mood slightly -- seemingly being the only sign that the previous night was entertaining, since I remember nothing else.

Spread, Grapevine, Spread

Colonel Slander, my commander
You invoke the powers of a double-standard
To malign and mangle myriads of names
But react enraged when reconciled the same
Like wine's words of wisdom - grapevine

Faceless, you are, with the aspersions you spread
Conjuring coersion with the lies in your head
You usurp the trust which friends have endowed
You ostracize others to be part of the crowd
Like wine's words of wisdom - grapevine

Rumors and gossip, your palaver of joy
Innocent reputations you reap and destroy
Procuring felicity through others' shame
You point the finger so as not to be blamed
Like wine's words of wisdom - grapevine

For on the vines the grapes grow faster than time
To cloud and obscure anything it surrounds
But behind the clouds lies the victim - a mime
Waiting to be found, to let the truth sound
While still succumbing to wine's words of wisdom
They spread like a grapevine

Karma's Evil Eye

A tall, weathered man entered a Scottsdale pub, his trench coat dripping from the ongoing downpour he had just escaped. As he took a seat, the dim light illuminated the multiple scars and wrinkles present on his aging visage. "Gin. Triple shot. No ice." he said in a gruff voice. He turned his head away from the bartender as he reached for his wallet, revealing a spider angioma formed by his atrophied liver. He gulped the three shots, preparing for the job he was to carry out. The shaking in his hands ceased. After tipping the bartender, he left.

No time to relax now, he thought to himself. Not with another job. He started his motorcycle with a rumble, and then a roar as he accelerated. He drove for two and a half kilometers before parking his bike. After another half kilometer of walking, he abruptly stopped, recognizing the abode of his target. He glanced at his watch: 03:30. It was late for him, but today he was early. He looked around, carefully observing the rural terrain for any potential witnesses. Spotting none, he moved in on his target until he was just inches away.

The dark blue door of a 1979 Chevorlet Camero was right by his ear. What a shame. A damn shame, he thought, as he opened the driver's door with a key provided by his client. He removed two rudimentary pipe bombs from his trench coat. They were both 8-inch-long stainless steel pipes with a copper cap on each end. The one he concentrated on most, however, was the one endowed with a timer and fuse. He cut two wires from underneath the steering column, then attached the two ends connected to his timer to them. He proceeded to turn the radio dial to full blast. This would be where the electricity rerouted, initiating the three-second timer as the car was turned on. He hid the two bombs, taping them in an obscure area next to the steering column, then quickly but silently exited his site of work, meticulously leaving no trace of his visit. All he had to do now was wait.

Situated in a small wooded area overlooking the highway and the few roadside properties, he sighed with anticipation. He checked the time again. It was 5:30 in the morning. His target would wake up at 04:30, shower, have breakfast, make coffee, and watch the local news for a half hour. At 05:45, he would leave for work, where he would arrive every day at 07:30. Every day except today, the man thought with a psychotic grin. He opened his trench coat, revealing a small metal flask. He took two large gulps, then returned it to its original place.

The sound of a front door closing recaptured his attention. He spotted a well-dressed man exit and proceed to the blue Camero, as was his daily ritual. The man entered the car, and put the key into the ignition. He turned the ignition, and put the car in gear. Just as he was doing this, the three-second timer ticked its last second. An explosion ripped through the silent countryside. All the tweeting birds stopped singing, fleeing their perches. The trench coat wearing assasin had successfully expunged the life of his rich, powerful target. His job was done.

Retracing his steps, he made his way back to his motorcycle. How happy the boss will be now that I have exterminated his rival gang's leader, he reveled. Upon starting his bike, he noticed a strange beep. All of a sudden, another explosion lit the dark, early morning sky, breaking the silence once more. Victim to the same fate as his last casualty, he had been beaten at his own game. His employer had assimilated his likelihood as a liability - that he knew too much of their organization - and had him assassinated as consequence. And so, with the tick of a time bomb, the hit-man was no more.