So, did this week’s prompt put you in the mood for a cold one? It’s a bit early for that, here, unfortunately.
Thanks again to this week’s judge, Corinne O’Flynn, @CorinneOFlynn for not getting drunk before she chose our finalists. 😉 And those are:
Allison Mosier, @Slytherin_Pixie
Congrats all! Their entries are below along with a poll for you to vote in and decide this week’s WINNER! Be back tomorrow morning at 9:00 Eastern to find out who wins!
Allison Mosier, @Slytherin_Pixie
“Grab me a beer, will you?”
Dante gritted his teeth as his father slurred the all too common demand. Never mind that he was sitting -right next- to the refrigerator, and Dante was in the living room. Never the less, he got up and grabbed one of the long necked bottles that filled the fridge and littered the house.
“Hurry up next time, ya waste of oxygen!” The backhand caught him off guard, sending him tumbling backwards. Tears pricked the edges of his vision as Dante picked himself up off the ground and raced out the door, finally breaking down in sobs as he stood in the scraggly backyard. Once again, he wondered why his mother hadn’t taken him with her when shed ran away from the abusive drunk that was his father. Maybe he really wasn’t worth it.
“Grab me a beer, will you?” The hulking brute said.
I scrambled in the cooler filled with ice, water, and beer and handed him one, holding on to the neck of the bottle.
“Thanks, human”
“No problem,” I managed to croak, my vocal chords nearly crushed by the death collar.
“You know, you creatures got a few things right. Beer, reality television, porn…”
I grunted each time he punctuated a word by pounding on the barcalounger armrest. The vibrations irritated my tortured sensibilities. Each day I was beaten into unconsciousness, drowned and revived.
I anticipated his next request and handed him a bag of BBQ pork rinds.
I didn’t want to be tased again.
“Now come here, puny human, sit at my feet and let me tell you what a real planet is like.”
I sighed inwardly. These lectures were never fun, and always punctuated by clouting my ear.
“On OUR glorious planet, you can have all the slaves you can eat. We have little slave stands. My favorite was Herbie’s Horrible Hash and Humans. Haha, that was a great place!”
I sat silently, waiting to get boxed. Then, it happened…
“Why we were…garg…bularg…grok…” The Behemoth started to choke on a Pork Rind! I couldn’t believe my good fortune!. I got up and kicked him as hard as I could.
then I fell down, sobbing. I’d inadvertantly administered a heimlich and saved the wretched thing.
“Grab me a beer, will you?”
“Heineken, Bud Light, PBR or Root?”
Terry glanced over toward the fridge to see his roommate’s ass sticking up as Mitch dug through the archaeological find that was their refrigerator.
“Root? What kind is that?”
“You know, root beer,” came the muffled reply.
“Seriously? You’re a college senior and you have root beer in the fridge?”
“Mattie likes root beer and if I get the IBC kind, it looks like she’s drinking a real one.”
The sound of glass clinking filtered over the noise of the football game in the living room.
“That’s what you get for dating an underclassman, man,” Terry muttered, shaking his head as his favorite green bottle came into view.
“She’s legal. She just doesn’t like the taste.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Newp.” Mitch handed over the beer and plopped down on the sofa. He pulled out his phone and laughed before pocketing it.
“You are so whipped.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it, my friend.”
The two sat in comfortable silence, taking draws off of their preferred bevvies as their eyes stayed fixated on the playoff game before them.
“She’s got a roommate,” Mitch said with feigned nonchalance.
“Does she.”
Another drink in silence.
“I can give her your digits,” Mitch continued, setting his drink on the ring stained coffee table.
“She drink root beer?”
“Don’t know.”
“Cute?”
“Don’t really know that either.”
“Hmmm…”
“I’ll have her call you.”
“A’right.”
“Grab me a beer, will you? Guinness if we’ve got any left.” I spoke into the walkie-talkie and then turned back to the reporter. “You want one?”
The young woman, younger than I’d expected from her reputation, and cuter too, shook her head and repeated her question, “Do you have any response to the public criticism?”
“Dearie, you’ve got to understand I’m pretty busy here. The only things I pay attention to on the television are reruns of Looney Tunes and the eleventh Doctor. By which I mean to say, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I smiled and put my arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Fill me in on the gossip and I’ll tell you why the bastards are wrong about me.”
She shrugged of my arm and gave me a look that communicated I wasn’t going to be able to flirt my way out of the interview. “Ms. Simpkins…”
“Doctor Simpkins, dearie. I appreciate the feminist sentiment, but don’t forget the PhD.” I wiggled my eyebrows at her.
“Doctor Simpkins, your critics are saying that you’ve abused your privileges. That the things your doing with the dinosaur cloning and genetic modifications are irresponsible and a waste of time and money.”
The door behind the kitchen opened and my accusers eyes drifted over to see who was joining us. When her eyes locked onto Adam they almost fell out of her head, like a cartoon character.
“I brought an extra just in case your friend wanted one,” Adam handed me a beer carefully, so as not to scrape my skin with his claws.
“Adam here is the oldest of the successful combinations of human and diplodicus DNA. A little taller than I’d intended, but what are you going to do. I think you should ask him yourself if he thinks I was irresponsible by creating him.”
Adam smirked. “Of course you were, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Grab me a beer, will you?”
Frema glanced around the tiny office. Broken desks, peeling wallpaper, dim lighting, fast-food wrappers strewn about and more dirt than she cared to think about…but no beer in sight, “Umm,…”
“In the Llama,” Horace grunted, his pudgy fingers clicking away at the computer in front of him. The lighting on the screen giving his already pale skin an unhealthy glow.
In an unkempt suit with his tie askew and battered fedora he looked like a hero of some dime-store noir novel. Of course, that would make her the classy dame that leads him into trouble and then betrays him, Frema thought sourly as she poked gingerly at the lifesized wooden statue of a llama that had a ratty feather boa around its neck. Of course, that wasn’t far from the truth.
She winced as one of her long red nails split on a seam. Then there was a click and the entire side of the creature opened up. Inside were several bottles. She pulled one out, “Really?”
“Was a gift from a past client.”
Frema opened it and set it on the desk where a series of ring-shaped stains showed where many beers before had sat. She leaned over Horace eyeing the screen, “Did you find it?”
“Yeah. And more.” He paused, taking his eyes from the screen and for the first time looking at her, “But that’s what you wanted, right? Access to the firm’s account.”
Frema smiled and picking up the bottle took a long swig, “I ain’t takin’ the fall for ‘ole Charlie’s embezzling.” Her polished accent had competely disappeaed, “But you see, I don’t like bein’ poor.”
Horace glanced towards his drawer where he kept his gun. This conversation wasn’tgoing to end well. He could tell.
“And you Horace, a small, cheap private eye. Too much greed and too little sense. You took advantage of me, frightened me and then stole all that money.”
Frema quickly reversed the bottle and like a pro brought it down on Horace’s head. Once, twice and a third time.
“They won’t find the money. And they certainly won’t find the body.” She said her gaze going to the full size carved wooden llama.
[poll id=”83″]
