There was a boy named "Al" and a girl named "Coholic". Al was a man on his way up. Through three shots of gin and a glass of vodka he could still see straight, which is how he made all his money.
He would go to clubs and bars where the young rich kids would hang out, and challenge them. He'd sit down at their table, look them straight in their eye, and pull a gun out. Laying on the table, the handle towards them, he'd ask them a question. Anything really, didn't matter. Usually their eyes would pop and their tongues would curl up like cheap paint under that hot barrel. Then, he'd put his hands in his pockets, and sit back, smoking a cigarette, letting the smoke curl under his hat. He'd look across the bar, giving them time to think. Then, once the kids had shut their mouths, he'd turn back to them and pick the gun up. He'd flick his cigarette at them, and pop the chamber, spinning it twice, before pointing it straight at them. At this point, either two things would happen. The kid would be alone, or his friends would be just as scared as him, unable to move like a flat tire. Then, Al would pull the trigger.
The flame would pop out, and everyone would give out a sigh as he lit another cigarette and let out a hearty laugh. The kid would start nervously laughing, and then he'd start talking to them. The adrenalin would stop pumping through them, and he'd get down to his business. He challenge them to race, for some ludicrous sum of money, all the while laughing at them and taking more gin. They'd always say yes. And he'd pocket his gun, flick his cigarette, and meet outside in their cars.
It was an old, green 1968 Ford Mustang GT. Paint was scrapped off the side, and on there was no mirror on the passenger side. When it talked, you could hear years of hard work coming through the muffler, teaching you one thing. And when the windows rolled down, and he'd lean out the window to tip his hat as he drove past you, only a kid with an ice cream holding onto your mother's skirt. You'd remember that you wanted to be you.
When the wheels stopped turning, he had his money, wrinkled bills he threw into his glove compartment. They always crashed.
This time a girl saw, and came out, knew that he had drunk twice as much as those guys. She asked, timid as a dame whose legs were fresh, "Sir, why didn't you crash". She wasn't trying to be rude. And he turned to her, his coat catching the wind. When he pulls the gun, they get scared, and they forget all about their alcohol, and it forgets about them too. But once they start driving, they get excited, and their alcohol comes up to have a good time. Show them around the town before taking them to their favorite wall.
"But, sir, why didn't you crash?"
"I once knew a girl, named Coholic. I met her in university, where I was getting straight ahead like a man on a mission. I was spreading Gods word in the form of studying, ready to hand out knowledge and power. But she showed me sin and taught me failure. I lost school and lost everything else, but one thing I kept from her, before she left me, was my senses. Drinking is like Russian Roulette. After you play it enough, you know when the guns gonna shot and when it's not. And, one day, I'll be glad that I'm wrong."
The kid looked at him, before heading back to tell her friends what had happened. The ambulance was showing up now, so he turned his back and climbed into his car, let it talk to him as it took him down the road. Lighting a cigarette, he saw a kid trying to weasel his way with a woman. Slowing down, he pulled out his lighter, and squeezed the trigger. The kid never walked again, and the woman never went out at night. Cause when he pulled in the smoke, and the ember lit his face, Coholic saw her old pal Al, and remembered the time.
When they were Al'Coholic.
Anyone else want any?
Community
