My Wisest Option
betrothed to the prophet- “Oh, that rhymed!”
- Take my hand
- viciously accurate shot
- a fixed and unnatural grin
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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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