Tagged: alcohol

“Why is the Bartender Wearing a Smurf Mask?”

  • by jenflair for the outrageous
  • routine handling at the post office
  • Now you know.
  • a maze of twisty little urine puddles
  • diamond-scented bubbles

Tune in next time part 889      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Why is the bartender wearing a smurf mask?” I asked.

“One must have a flair for the outrageous to work in my speakeasy,” Fleur explained, as if to a child. “Nothing about this enterprise is normal. It’s clandestine! Procuring quality eggnog is not as easy as assuring your letter gets routine handling at the post office by simply affixing a rodent pelt to the corner. It requires finesse and connections and a penchant for the dramatic.”

“Rodent pelts? I guess that explains why my letters never get delivered.”

“Now you know.”

As Fleur filled a mug for herself from the nozzle, I noticed something else about the smurf-masked man on the floor. “I think there’s something wrong with him,” I said. “See all the pee?” The man was in the middle of a maze of twisty little urine puddles, all frozen to the icy floor. All the eggnog I’d ingested had filled my brain with diamond-scented bubbles, and I was pretty sure I was still officially stupid. Perhaps this was all normal? Or… “You don’t think he’s dead, do you?”

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My Wisest Option

  • by Kentbetrothed to the prophet
  • “Oh, that rhymed!”
  • Take my hand
  • viciously accurate shot
  • a fixed and unnatural grin

Tune in next time part 888      Click Here for Earlier Installments

My wisest option would have been to spit out the nog that had already gone into my mouth and then clamp my lips shut to protect myself from additional incursions of the creamy intoxicant. This was evident to me in the moment on some level, but it was not a level where decisions are made. Besides, Contrarian eggnog is delicious and I could rationalize that it offered far more nutritional merit than most strong drink. It’s also very fast-acting, especially on someone in my weakened condition, so by the time it might have dawned on me to expel the stuff, enough had been absorbed through my mucous membranes to render me officially stupid.

Fleur was aggressive with the nozzle, giving me the nog faster than I could swallow it. But she was also mindful of my wellbeing, at least enough so that she let up for a few seconds when I began spluttering.

“I’m on the eggnog train, and I don’t wanna get off it,” I mumbled.

“Slow down, or you’ll end up betrothed to the prophet,” she replied. “Oh, that rhymed!”

The business about betrothal was a Contrarian euphemism for alcohol poisoning.

“You’re driving, toots.” I opened wide for more, and she delivered. Apparently the prophet didn’t seem too infatuated with me yet. But after just a few seconds, she cut me off.

“Take my hand,” she said. When I ignored the command, she picked up the keg nozzle again and made a visciously accurate shot up my right nostril. That jolted me enough for her to get me on my feet.

“Who’s supposed to be tending this bar, anyway?” I wondered aloud. My speech was very sloppy, so Fleur’s shrug could have meant that she didn’t know, or didn’t care, or didn’t understand the question.

I peered behind the bar and saw a man lying there, his skin abnormally blue, and his face frozen in a fixed and unnatural grin.

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Fleur Straightened the Styrofoam Toilets

  • by jenideal winter drink for people
  • how to shave his back hair
  • Probably between sips
  • main delivery method: squirting
  • speak nicely to the elephant

Tune in next time part 887      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur straightened the styrofoam toilets, then said, “Come on. You look like you could use a drink.”

I wanted to protest that what I needed was food and a good night’s sleep, but I knew she wouldn’t listen.

My wife grabbed my elbow and tugged me over to the back wall of the bathroom. She rotated the toilet paper holder back and forth like the dial of a combination lock, and when she was done, a section of the wall swung open like a vault door. I hoped I’d memorized the combination correctly.

The room we entered was an ice bar. Every surface was carved from ice, and the lighting was all blue. I’d heard rumors that some Royal Contrarian Airships housed eggnog speakeasies, but I hadn’t believed it. Eggnog, despite being the ideal winter drink for people who enjoy nutmeg and warm alcoholic custard, was forbidden in Contraria. Legend had it that William Penn IV got so drunk on the stuff on the eve of his wedding that he forgot how to shave his back hair. Not only that but he proposed to three other women. (Probably between sips of his favorite boozy beverage.) The next day he was viciously hungover, and married all four women in a single ceremony. His new wives were very upset (more about his hairy back than the polygamy) the honeymoon was a disaster, and the beverage was banned in Contraria forever. At least officially.

Fleur plunked me down on a chunk of ice, reached behind the bar, and grabbed a keg nozzle. That’s the other thing about Contrarian eggnog. The main delivery method: squirting directly into one’s mouth.

I shook my head. The last thing I needed right now was alcohol. I needed to keep the few wits I had about me.

“Come on,” Fleur cajoled. “Open up and speak nicely to the elephant.” Which is what Contrarian’s say in place of ‘here comes the airplane’ when they’re trying to get a child to eat.

I opened my mouth to protest that I was not a toddler, and instantly had a mouthful of warm, boozy, eggy froth. My wife, it turns out, had a lot of experience with elephants.

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“Don’t Make Jokes About Poop”

  • by jen“It’s my one rule.”
  • Olga’s younger and more receptive sister
  • spider-infested genitals
  • an awfully big adventure
  • smelled like a liquor cabinet

Tune in next time part 603      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Don’t make jokes about poop,” Tessa demanded. “It’s my one rule.” She slammed the outhouse door closed. “Now,” she said, turning her attention to John’s awkward situation, “what do we do about Olga’s younger and more receptive sister here?”

“We could dump him through the hole,” I lispingly suggested.

“I said no poop jokes!”

“This place has been abandoned for ages. Anyone who tried to use the toilet would wind up with spider-infested genitals. I’m sure that if we shove John down in there he’ll have an awfully big adventure, but not a terrifically stinky one.”

Below our tangled limbs, my trapped frenemy wriggled, trying to free himself. He worked up a sweat and soon the whole tiny room smelled like a liquor cabinet. I worried about the safety of using an oil lamp in such an atmosphere.

“Hey,” John’s voice resonated under the floor. “There’s a tunnel down here. It heads in the direction of Bumpengrynd. Push me through the hole and I’ll make my way there quickly, protected from the storm!”

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I Twitched My Eyelid

  • by jencouldn’t see what was in the crotch
  • slept under a picture of a bear
  • flutes of champagne
  • your big girl panties
  • mountain honeycombed with caves

Tune in next time part 463      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I twitched my eyelid at Doctor Nanna to signal that I’d heard her message. Her lips relaxed into a slight smile. I wasn’t fluent in Academy staff slang, but I thought I knew what her unicorn comment meant. Unfortunately I couldn’t see what was in the crotch of her leotard to confirm, because it was hidden behind her surgical apron. I kept an eye on her as she flitted around the nursery, tending to Isolde and the infants.

“Every great warlord in Contraria’s history has slept under a picture of a bear,” Isolde said, gazing at the cartoony creatures adorning the walls. “This will do nicely.”

A 3-star yodeler arrived with flutes of champagne for Isolde and myself. “To the children.” I raised my glass.

“To the children,” Isolde agreed. She downed the champagne in one long pull and gave a dainty, giggling burp. “How many are there?” she asked. “I lost count. I felt like a baby piñata!”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Perhaps you should count them.” Behind Isolde, Doctor Nanna bent over a cradle and I finally had confirmation of her message.

I left Isolde with a second glass of champagne, and joined Doctor Nanna in the corner where we spoke in low voices. “I saw your big girl panties,” I said.

“I’d heard you were a clever boy, good with codes.” She handed me a swaddled infant. “This fortress is built on a mountain honeycombed with caves. That’s where those yeti took Jim.  I don’t need to tell you how dangerous this situation is.”

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“You Know What They Say”

  • by jenalcohol on his breath
  • in a complicated twist
  • If you want to do threesomes
  • Yes, it’s that kind of place
  • scientific proof that mustaches

Tune in next time part 443      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“You know what they say,” William said.

I didn’t, but the alcohol on his breath was probably answer enough to my query. His knickers were in a complicated twist due to handing his wife over to me to impregnate, so he’d gotten tipsy on the finest Paradoxical rotgut. Never ascribe to nefariousness that which is adequately explained by drunkenness.

“Has the Scampering commenced?” I asked. “Or are they waiting for me?”

“They’re waiting.” William led me into the corridor, then said over his shoulder, “Yesterday enjoyed herself with you. If you want to do threesomes with us, she’s interested. And I’m okay with it.”

I know you’re thinking, ‘Isn’t Enigma Fortress a military facility? Is it really the kind of place where such sexual shenanigans occur?’ and I am here to assure you: Yes, it’s that kind of place. As are most Contrarian places.

“I’ll consider it,” I said, with no intention of following through.

As we reached the door to the snowy courtyard, William said, “While she awaits a positive pregnancy test, Yesterday is in the laboratory, continuing her quest for scientific proof that mustaches make excellent disguises.” He dropped a theatrical wink. “Enjoy the Scampering.”

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The Alleged Beverage Harry Handed to Me

  • by Kentexcept for their own wives
  • and it caused… issues
  • First of all, go fuck yourself
  • mementos of that intimacy
  • I had stuff to do.

Tune in next time part 372      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The alleged beverage Harry handed to me had a strange, vaguely medicinal aroma. The froth made a snakelike hiss. The glass seemed to be growing colder in my hand.

“Tell me about this drink, Harry.”

“The world-renowned Inimical Gin and Tonic,” he proclaimed promptly, like he’d hoped I would ask. “The bartenders share the exact recipe with no one except for their own wives, who had to be let in on it by decree because the bartenders otherwise had to keep secrets from them and it caused… issues.”

“But the approximate recipe would be gin and tonic?” I pressed.

“First of all, go fuck yourself, sir. And second of all, that’s inimical gin and inimical tonic, in mysterious yet precise proportions. Each night, the bottles are stored together in a particular geometry according to ancient tradition, a secret stacking method that brings them nearer to one another. The richness of the flavors and the crispness of the effervescence are mementos of that intimacy.”

“Sounds very strong,” I said. Harry smiled thinly. “And I’d hate to start issuing commands with my judgment impaired.” I set the glass on the table. Harry seethed at me, but I couldn’t worry about that right now. I was a general, and I had stuff to do.

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My Father Had Been Dead for Years

  • by jenWait, what?
  • “preferably dead,” she added.
  • sang the last line of the song
  • just toast, maybe a boiled egg
  • a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices

Tune in next time part 209                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

My father had been dead for years, but there he was, boarding my brother’s presidential zeppelin. I drained my subpoena and smacked the glass down on the bar, upside down as per Pinkie Swears tradition. My head was swimming. I tried to focus on the image on the tiny phone screen. It couldn’t really be my father, could it?

I realized the bartender was speaking, and had been for some time.

“Wait, what?” I said.

She sighed heavily. “After the sex scandal, we thought we were done with your father. We thought he’d be disgraced, imprisoned,” her eyes darted to the door, “preferably dead,” she added.

“That’s a bit harsh,” I slurred, wishing I had some food to counteract the alcohol. “Everyone involved was a consenting adult. Even Freya.” I hiccuped.

“Jason’s here.” She grabbed me by the front of my shirt and hauled me over the bar where I sprawled on the floor. Out amongst the balloons I heard all the Pinks take up a chorus of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. The bartender stood up and sang the last line of the song along with the rest of them.

Staying low, I made my way through the door into the kitchen. I was hoping to find something to eat. Nothing fancy — just toast, maybe a boiled egg. I found neither of those, but I did see a frozen daiquiri machine and a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices.

As I stuck my head under the daiquiri nozzle and opened my mouth, the bartender came through the door. “Now’s our chance to get out of here,” she said, pulling me away from the machine, “while they’re all distracted. We need to get to that zeppelin and stop your father!”

Her breath in my face was even more flammable than my own, and I realized I was tangling with a representative of the Guild of Fire Eaters. I couldn’t let her know that Jemma was just downstairs.

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Based on the Similarity

  • by Kentthe Three Stooges sitting with a salad bowl
  • (Vehement cheering.)
  • therein they differ from those of Switzerland and Norway
  • The wine was excellent.
  • you know how when you make hard boiled eggs

Tune in next time part 166                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Based on the similarity in note-taking styles, I thought this man must have graduated from our rival academy. But when I flipped to the cover of his book, I saw an unfamiliar school crest: the Three Stooges sitting with a salad bowl.

Wasting no more time on academic nostalgia, I consumed his text as fast as I could. This was obviously where the plans of Svetlana and Heinrich were all leading. Some kind of coalition that they meant to disrupt, or maybe join. I held the minutes of their last secret meeting.

“This assembly will now come to order. (Vehement cheering.) Our quail egg parfaits include gold leaf, and therein they differ from those of Switzerland and Norway. (Quizzical laughter.) The wine was excellent. Sorry there wasn’t enough for anyone else to have any. (Disappointed whistling.) Back to the parfaits, though: you know how when you make hard boiled eggs you need to adjust the time to your altitude?”

I smiled, as the lacily attired man on the floor groaned. I knew who was behind these political machinations!

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