I Need a Drink

“I may be a fucking drunk, but I know what I saw,” I say with a slight slur to

the bartender, sipping on my fourth or fifth double vodka soda at the bar.

“Mick, we talked about this. It would’ve been in the news and more people

would be asking questions. Especially, if you’re saying you saw Father Wayne kill

that boy. You’re just drunk and seeing shit. Next one’s your last.” The bartender

responded in his deep raspy voice, walking to the new couple at the bar.

“Listen, Kevin, that boy is dead. I’m telling you, Father Wayne had blood

on his hands and that boy’s head was like a rotten Jack-O-Lantern in Novem-“

“Mick! Enough! You’re scaring these nice people out of my bar. What can I

get for you tonight?” Kevin asked tossing his red brown hair, scrunching his

crooked nose and flashing his winning smile. His tattooed biceps flexing as he

stretched his arms across the bar, leaning into them for their order.

“What was that lady saying about a boy and a priest?” The woman’s

furrowed brows, scrunched up forehead, and wide eyes made Kevin side glance

towards my side of the bar and start shaking his head. He leaned in closer and

spoke softly. probably explaining my brain is finally drowning in vodka. Maybe

Kevin is right. Maybe my brain has been drowning in vodka and now its sinking

into a mushy pile of shit before I die. I take a sip of my drink, looking at my

cigarette stained fingertips and dirty fingernails. I take a large gulp almost

finishing my drink feeling the stares as the ice falls to the bottom of my glass. I

don’t need to look up or guess whose eyes are burning a hole through my body. I

feel the panic raise from deep within my body. Maybe they are staring because

they are going to kill me for ratting out the priest. I’ve had this gut turning feeling

that I’m being watched since that night in the park. I glance up and the man with

a high bun with shaved sides doesn’t look away with his blonde blue-eyed

companion. Fuck. He’s here to kill me. I need another drink.

I tap it twice giving Kevin my signal to fill ‘er up. He makes his way across,

reluctantly grabbing the Tito’s as he reaches my glass and pours a heavy

freehand. I stare at the brown bar top that’s sticky and shiny with the familiar

scent of alcohol and cleaner. Kevin doesn’t bother with talk. I’m on my last glass,

and he knows I’ll give him his tip and pay the tab on payday, which is part of the

agreement we have after several unpaid bills and me passing out at the bar. He

knows I don’t need conversation to sit in that corner of the L-shaped bar asking

to fill ‘er up repeatedly. The juice from the lime spraying my face and down my

fingers as I clumsily squeeze over the glass. Pulling out his cash tip from my thin

wallet and throwing it onto the bar top, I watch the bills dampen with a mix of

condensation and split liquor, and I gulp down that drink like I was defending the

championship. Go head and kill me. I think as I stand causing the vodka to rush

up and down my body. I welcome the buzzed feeling when it hits quickly, taking a

moment savoring the whole body numbness cascading through my veins before I

walk past the couple with the laser eyes melting my ice faster.

I stumble across the bar watching Kevin’s smirking face and shaking his

head in protest. I feel like messing around with that perfect couple that need to

judge the drunk all night. “Starin’ iz roode, ya knoh,” I exaggerate the slurs just to

get under their skin watching as the prep, or hipster, as they are called now, man

hold onto the woman and she clutches her purse. “I’m a fucking drunk not a thief!

You assholes,” I say normally with my eyes squinted and march for the door

walking perfectly. Kevin shakes his head apologizing for my behavior and giving

them a round on the house. I take out a Newport 100 and light it taking long

drag, making it glow bright orange as it burns the paper with grey smoke dancing

into the air. I hold in that minty smoke in my lungs, relishing the nicotine high and

the heightened buzz feeling from the combination of alcohol and nicotine.

Exhaling an elongated cloud, flicking the ash that formed and taking another

drag, I begin to walk towards my house. The bar is only a block away, but on nice

nights paired with feisty moods, I take the long way in case anyone wants to fight

or fuck.

Tonight, I feel reckless and energized, as if I can party until the sun wakes

up. The rest of the city sleeping, as I lay lifeless on a park bench. Taking a right

instead of left, I decide the long way home tonight. I get halfway down the street

from the bar, watching cars whiz pass as I take a drag from my second cigarette,

when shadows behind me stretch taller; approaching me. Peaking over my right

shoulder with hurried feet, I see a hooded figure closing the gap between us. My

heart jackhammering through my breastbone as the bubbling vodka induced

buzz extinguishes with ice. My gut screaming to run, but before I can give the

approval, my feet slam into the pavement creating some needed distance. The

hooded figure crosses the street, walking into that dreadful park. My heart still

banging and blood thudding in my ears. I need a fucking drink. The red and white

Budweiser neon sign a flickering lighthouse beacon slows my heart rate and

allows whatever buzz left to bubble again. I grab the golden handle of the green,

single square, windowed door and allow the smell of booze and decades-old

stale cigarettes to engulf my nostrils as it opens, which instantly calms my wired

nerves. I take a step into the hallway and everything goes black. A thick fabric

covers my face and is sucked into my open, gasping mouth.

I feel a tight grip on my wrists, which are tied together with a thin plastic-

like string, jerks my thrashing body. I hear a car door open as I’m shoved inside,

and the door slams violently shut. I try my best to look through the fibers of the

fabric with no luck. My voice muffled failing to raise any alarm that I’ve been

abducted. My body is pinned and glued to the leather seat. The smell of men’s

cologne and leather breaks through the fabric. Burning rubber and tires

screeching fills my new blackened fabric world with heightened senses. No one

knows where I am. No one will look for me for days. My mind jumps from one

terrifying thought to the next; and, sweat drips from my eyebrows into my blind

eyes stinging with each drop.

“You’ve been talking to everyone all around town about Father Wayne

beating a boy to death. You mind sharing your story with me? I can help you,” a

deep raspy voice says from my right, so I figure I must be behind the driver.

“W-who are you? Where are you taking me?” My voice shaky and

unpredictable high and low stutters the words.

The deep raspy voice sighs, “Listen, we both know if I told you who I was

you wouldn’t need that sack over your head. So, let’s be honest with each other.

You tell me what you saw, and we will let you go. Fair enough for ya?”

I give a quick nod, trying to piece together my drunken memories of that

blackout night. I inhale a deep slow breath the mixture of cologne and leather

filling my lungs, pausing before I exhale through a straw as my therapist, once

upon a time, told me to do before reaching for another drink, but jokes on her

though, those deep breaths turned into gulps. I lean my body against the leather

seat, and get as comfortable as I can, before I recount the events that lead to a

heavy three-day binge followed by two days of being broke and desperate for

booze. I inhale and repeat the process, hoping that Mr. Raspy Voice will get

annoyed and pull the trigger now instead of making me relive it again. Halfway

through my third inhale; I hear the chilling sound of cocking a gun, followed by

the undeniable weight and metallic feel, even with the black barrier, against my

forehead. Fuck. I take back that wish. Don’t shoot me. A war rages on in my mind

whether to let Mr. Raspy Voice kill me now or later, making it impossible for me

to collect my thoughts. Click. I let out a bloodcurdling, ear splitting scream

chased by sobs and urine soaked pants as Mr. Raspy Voice pulls the trigger.

Inaudible pleas in-between gasps and sobs answered with a shift, hit from the

stock of the gun, breaking my nose and erupting a volcano of blood, flooding my

mouth and drenching my sac.

“You have a minute to compose yourself. That was the only empty

chamber,” that deep raspy voice explained calmly, chilling my spine. I did my

very best to calm my self down using the pain from my broken nose as a tool to

snap me back to the task.

“Y-you know I’m a drunk, right? Well I did what I do every night, go drink

alone in the corner at the bar. I can have only a certa-,” a hand grabs my throat

muting me.

“You’re stalling, Mick. And I don’t like it,” that chillingly calm voice was

losing patience.

“N-n-no. I- I’m not stalling. My brain is fucked up from years of booze. My

memory sucks and I-,” the hand squeezed harder, and I try to reach for my

throat, causing that plastic tie to dig into my skin. “Ok ok,” I manage to croak out

through the snake like finger twisting and squeezing my throat for dinner. “I got

thrown out that night for fighting some bitch after she slipped my last drink. I was

flying high and walked through the park looking for someone to drink or sleep

with. I was by those large bushes, ya know? The ones that are always overgrown

and people have sex behind from time to time, ya know? Well I heard a boy

screaming and a man yelling ‘Shut up! Shut the fuck up’ to the boy. The boy was

crying, kicking and clawing at the man’s arm. He had him by the hair and

dragged him along the gravel. I hid behind those bushes and made a little

opening to watch what the hell was happening, ya know. The man went under

the light, and I saw his red-brown hair and that crooked nose. I knew it was

Father Wayne. I just knew it. But he was angry like beyond angry. The boy was

crying, and Father Wayne still had him by the hair. He shouted ‘Stop yellin’. Stop

that cryin’! But that boy was scared. Father Wayne hit him hard with his other

hand, making the boy cry harder. That’s when the cycle started, ya know? Father

Wayne hit harder after every sob until the boy went limp and quiet. Father Wayne

was crying, and he wouldn’t stop punching that boy’s head,” my voice trails and

new tears fill my eyes, pouring silently over my bloodstained cheeks.

“I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t see the boy’s face anymore. It

looked like a smashed pumpkin, and Father Wayne was covered in his blood. I

knew I needed a triple vodka, hold the soda, after witnessing the fucking beloved

priest beat a boy to death. I watched Father Wayne let go of the boy’s hair and

run faster than any horse out the gate runs towards the pond. I walked right up to

that boy’s bloody body. I prayed for him to find peace and knew I needed about

five shots of vodka after that sight. I ran the best I could to the pond and saw

Father Wayne stripped down scrubbing his face and body. His clothes were

thrown in the trash. You know that trash can near the bench on top of that small

hill before you reach the pond. He tossed his clothes in there. Well, I waited a

long time for Father Wayne to get his ass out the water. Took him ten whole

minutes before he came out, dripping wet. Then he rolled in the dirt. The

strangest thing I have ever seen, a grown man rolling in the dirt, after killing a

small child. Then, he walked towards the church. I walked to that bar you

abducted me in front of and got blackout drunk. The bartender made me call the

police, since I was looking like a ghost and shaking as if I was having bad

withdrawals or a seizure. I told them everything. We walked to the park and stood

right at those bushes.

But nothing was there. I walked to where I saw the body. Nothing. Not

even a speck of blood on the gravel. That boy’s head was destroyed and lying in

a pool of blood but there was no body and no pool of blood. I watched as the

police rolled their eyes at me. ‘Cause I’m a drunk and completely wasted already.

I got escorted out of one bar claiming that I must have alcohol brain, and I’m not

reliable or I passed out and dreamt this all. I took them to the pond to show them

the clothes in that trashcan. Just take out containers, water bottles, and several

nips of vodka. They share that same glance again. Oh, by the way, they took

those nips and tested them and apparently, I drank them and tossed them in that

same trash. I told them that I watched the priest roll in the dirt and march off to

church. They brought dogs out no scents. They questioned the priest who

happened to be at a church function with over 100 people. The police said there

weren’t any missing boys in a 50-mile radius. So, I went about my routine telling

everyone I could, because I know what a saw. Now I don’t know who you are Mr.

Raspy Voice, or if you believe me, but something fishy went down that night. I

don’t care if you pull that trigger and I’m dead. I know what I saw. Now, may I

have a drink, please?” My narrative took more of a fuck you approach than I

intended. The last few words dangled in the air as I realized, I might have just

pissed off the stranger that abducted me, pulled a trigger, pistol-whipped me, and

choked me twice.

“Listen, I believe you when you saw you saw all that. Maybe it wasn’t

Father Wayne. Did you think of that? Did you think that there are other people

with red brown hair and crooked nose? Maybe highly connected people that can

get shit cleaned up in the few hours it took your ass to talk, because you slur too

fucking much, right Mick? Maybe you talked in circles that night and they didn’t

believe you, because yeah, you’re a drunk, Mick. A loudmouth drunk who never

should have taken the long way home right, Mick?” Mr. Raspy Voice made every

word demand attention causing hairs all over my body to rise and goose bumps

to form along my arms. A loud thunderous roar emerged from the passenger seat

followed by laughs like a pack of hyenas, cackling and surrounding their pray.

Fuck. I need to get out of here. My urine-soaked jeans cold and stiff become

warm again, and my body goes numb against the seat. The car stops and the

doors pop open. I’m ripped out of the car and dragged onto gravel. I pull my wrist

hard against the plastic tie trying to break free. My voice failing me, again, I am

unable to cry for help or make a noise as my knees are scraped along the

ground. The dragging stops and the blood-drenched fabric is removed. Refusing

to look anywhere, I glue my eyes to the ground. The cold metal presses hard

against my head.

“Look up,” that deep, chilly, raspy voice demands. I unglue my eyes

trailing up his black shiny dress shoes to his black pants. “You want a drink?” I

know that question anywhere now. I know that voice. He asks, and I know this

time it’s my last drink. I shake my head yes, tears filling my eyes finding the

tracks the left before. My eyes see the tattoos and those muscular biceps. He

hands me a nip of vodka and I swallow it down like being trapped in the dessert

for weeks. I see his winning smile and that scrunched up crooked nose, tossing

his red brown hair. He puts the gun to my head. “Yeah you knew what you saw

alright, Mick.” I stare into his dark brown, almost black, lifeless eyes.

“Do I pay my tab now or later?” I smirk before my world turned black.