Greetings crypt dweller,

Make yourself comfortable… Shall I pour you a drink? I have some Kool-aid…or maybe Tang is more to your liking? Oh…you’re looking for a bigger thrill… Well…I have this little concoction…but not too much, mind you. It’s potent stuff and drinking is the devil’s water slide, nothing but fire and brimstone and regret at the bottom.

Have you ever seen the bottom, friend? Surely, once or twice you drank enough to get a glimpse the morning after, to smell the sulfuric fingers of Heck as they tingle the synapses of your reptilian brain… Too much of this and you may book yourself a one-way ticket to that dark place.

You say it couldn’t happen to you? Well…did you hear about tonight’s protagonist? He took one too many sips from Baccus’ teat and may not live to regret it. Let’s see how he’s doing now…

Mort had put his faith in the drink. He had poured it into his gas tank and ventured out into the empty desert, hoping it would lead to some unknown private future—a tropical oasis, maybe, tucked away in the desert. But now the tank was out of gas in the epicenter of oblivion and his beat up Chevy was coasting towards rest in the middle of more nothing than Mort had ever witnessed.

Except it was worse than that: Mort’s car had been repossessed three weeks ago and it was minus one-million-jillion degrees outside Chief Mondo Pu-Pu, the Tiki bar where he’d frittered away his last shots at redemption.

Mort’s hands gripped his last drink in desperate prayer. He closed his eyes and turned up towards the altar of shimmering bottles, pleading for his deus ex machina moment. But Mort had been praying his entire life that he was more than just a minor character, someone worth saving in this tiresome novel. Now he’d approached his final hour and if something was going to happen it needed to happen now, here sitting at the head of this Tiki bar in his favourite and only-remaining Hawaiian shirt.

Mort sighed, opened his eyes, and sussed out the bartender. Joe’s tall, beefy physique hovered in a confusing space between fat and muscular. It was the kind of body that could actually pull off the Hawaiian look. Mort’s lanky frame, on the other hand, made the shirt seem as if he wore brightly colored garbage bag.

The middle-aged female clientele of Chief Mondo Pu-pu, local and touristic, made no secret of their admiration for Joe’s padded build—though Joe didn't seem to notice or care. Joe didn’t impress much of his personality or time on any customer ever. He served drinks; that’s all.

Joe raised his eyebrows inquisitively, sensing Mort’s attention. Mort’s gaze shot back into the depths of his mug.

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About Leopold McGinnis


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Leopold started this whole Red Fez thing. Where it stops, nobody knows. If you liked this, I've also written five books, which you can see on my profile. Also, you've got some mustard on your collar. No...no problem. Anytime. Gotta be careful with the mustard.
5 comments
Discussion
  18 months ago
This story keeps sloshing around in my gut, giving me bad dreams.
  19 months ago
Some solid writing there, bub—a powerful long brew but it went down. They say Boo Radley was a family man before he had one a them Tiki La Pu-Pu thingies.
  19 months ago
I can only imagine the months of in-depth research necessary to flesh this story out in such authentic details. Which I won't divulge.
  19 months ago · in response to R. B Ejue

    Haha. Thanks. Still probably too long, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
  19 months ago
Much better, it's now an entertaining story.

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