Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Special gal? I dunno. But I say it, probably like the equivalent of puffing up my chest in front of this douche canoe. Yeah, that’s right, I got a special gal, and she’s a bombshell, and I’m gettin’ the pair of us some super bad-ass drinks.
Try as I might to ignore it, I feel him staring with a fiery and unmistakable intensity. He looks like he tries to say something but stops. Or maybe he did say something and I didn’t hear it in all this noise. Did he say hey? Did he say sorry? Did he just confess that he does, in fact, have the world’s tiniest penis and is a fuck-wad?
“Nice and hard and sweet,” comes the bartender, sliding two glasses over the counter and snatching the cash.
My eyes drop to the drinks.
They have tiny umbrellas.
Lemon wheels sitting prettily on the rims.
Cute maraschino cherries bobbing in cream.
I look up. “The fuck are these?”
“What you ordered,” answers the bartender dryly, then sets a tray in front of the asshole with four large glasses of beer—manly and foaming and thick. “Here you go, sir.”
“Thanks,” says the guy, putting on a show of acting polite and dignified. But I know better. Then he has the audacity to hand the bartender cash and say, “Keep the change.”
I stare at those big glasses for his table, probably sucking up to the reverend of Spruce and his husband, planning to return to them with his manly beers, tight shirt, and stupid hair.
I can’t shake the indignant look he gave me at the gas station. With his superior, self-important eyes. Stick up his ass. Probably calling me backwater trash behind my back. Looking down on me like a stain beneath his boot.
My blood boils hotter, just thinking about it.
My breaths come quicker, too, quicker and tighter.
He’s still fidgeting with the glasses of beer, taking his sweet ass time, when I grab my own drinks and spin around forcefully.
And deliberately knock my glass into one of his.
Tipping his beer right over.
Spilling it all over the front of him.
“The fuck!” he shouts out, stepping back, jostling all the beers on the tray as he looks down at his soaked clothes. Beer all over the counter. All over the barstool. Dripping to the floor. He looks up at me, accusation in his eyes.
The best part is, I don’t even feel sorry.
“Oh, damn, shoot,” I exclaim in my phoniest voice. “So sorry, man. I totally didn’t mean to do that. I guess I just …” My eyebrows quirk up with amusement. “… don’t know how to operate beverages properly. Usin’ my actual hands is so last century. Dang, I sure wish someone could show me how to hold a fuckin’ beer.”
The outrage in his eyes.
His lips parted, breathing heavy, staring at me in disbelief.
What’s so hard to believe? That you’re untouchable? That you don’t deserve to be looked down on like the rest of us? That it’s okay for me to get drenched because of your stupidity and not the other way around? This guy is such a tool.
“Aw, damn,” I go on, my voice turning singsongy, “looks like it soaked straight down to your undies.” I shake my head. “Phew, tough titties, pal.” Then I clutch my drinks and go.
He doesn’t say a word. Not to my face. Not to my back. I just enjoy the gift of his scathing silence as I proudly strut through the crowd back to the jukebox. What a satisfying feeling it is, to get the last word in, to put a snob-job like him in his place. Already, my day’s better. I’m on top of the world. King of Spruce. A god.
“Here ya go, Dancin’ Queen Barbie,” I say, giving Juni a glass.
She stops dancing and looks at it. “Half of it’s gone.”
“Slight mishap, spilled a lil’, no biggie. Look, they’re cute, jus’ like you. Got little cherries in ‘em, too.”
“It’s bad luck to drink a drink that’s half a drink.” She kicks it back anyway. The lemon wheel slides off and slaps onto the floor. She doesn’t notice. “Is this a whiskey sour?”
“No fuckin’ clue.” I take a sip of mine as I start dancing again. “But I’m gonna down ten more of ‘em before the night’s over.”
“Good thing I’m not superficial …” she says, slurring slightly.
“Superstitious,” I correct her.
“… because this bad luck sure tastes nice.” She starts fishing the maraschino cherry out of the glass, spilling even more of it, the tiny umbrella bobbing next to her fingers about to go, too.
“Bad Luck Booze,” I decide to name it. It’s suddenly the most satisfying drink I’ve ever had. The tastiest. The manliest. What’s a cherry and a lemon wheel and a tiny umbrella got to indicate what makes a drink manly? I’ll drink fruity cocktails all damned night, I don’t care. I’ve got these cute-ass drinks to thank for flipping my shitty-ass day right back onto its proud feet.