TM 153: Sunrise
Frankie always wonders why people mess everyFUCKINGthing FUCKING up.
What the fuck.
Of course, they named the bloody thing in Florida, and every wanker out there knows Florida is a shitty, wet place for old zombies that don't even know they're dead already, but still.
"IF IT'S CALLED TEQUILA SUNRISE THERE SHOULD BE FUCKING TEQUILA IN IT, RIGHT?
Enough tequila that you can actually feel it fucking burning your throat as you swallow, not just a fucking tickle in your nostrils, RIGHT?"
The bartender nods repeatedly, even though it mustn't be that easy, the way Frankie's hand is wrapped around his pipe.
"Tequila, fucking orange juice, and fucking bloody cherry grenadine on top, RIGHT?"
The bartender nods, again. And again. Then squicks a little. Or perhapes that's a whimper. Frankie pours the content of the highball glass on his head, the ice cubes clincking on the barcounter top, the maraschino cherry rolling beside Frankie's elbow.
"THERE you go," and the cherry is neatly pushed in the bartender's left nostril.
Frankie leaves the bar, shouldering his way out, kicking a couple of bar stools out of his way. "TEQUILA! It's called FUCKING TEQUILA SUNRISE because there's FUCKING TEQUILA IN IT!" Everyone nods vigorously as he yells it in their faces.
What the fuck.
Since Luxuria burnt down, drinking hasn't been the same. It hasn't come free, for one thing.
"Sunrise my ass..."
Though those had been fucking pretty flames. The safe exit door of the bar he's just got out is in the alley, back of the building. Doesn't take much to get in.
Takes a long time for the firemen to arrive, though.
"There's your sunrise, fuckers" Frankie thinks as the flames light up the skyline.
286 words, Frankie Roberts, The Indianrunner
What the fuck.
Of course, they named the bloody thing in Florida, and every wanker out there knows Florida is a shitty, wet place for old zombies that don't even know they're dead already, but still.
"IF IT'S CALLED TEQUILA SUNRISE THERE SHOULD BE FUCKING TEQUILA IN IT, RIGHT?
Enough tequila that you can actually feel it fucking burning your throat as you swallow, not just a fucking tickle in your nostrils, RIGHT?"
The bartender nods repeatedly, even though it mustn't be that easy, the way Frankie's hand is wrapped around his pipe.
"Tequila, fucking orange juice, and fucking bloody cherry grenadine on top, RIGHT?"
The bartender nods, again. And again. Then squicks a little. Or perhapes that's a whimper. Frankie pours the content of the highball glass on his head, the ice cubes clincking on the barcounter top, the maraschino cherry rolling beside Frankie's elbow.
"THERE you go," and the cherry is neatly pushed in the bartender's left nostril.
Frankie leaves the bar, shouldering his way out, kicking a couple of bar stools out of his way. "TEQUILA! It's called FUCKING TEQUILA SUNRISE because there's FUCKING TEQUILA IN IT!" Everyone nods vigorously as he yells it in their faces.
What the fuck.
Since Luxuria burnt down, drinking hasn't been the same. It hasn't come free, for one thing.
"Sunrise my ass..."
Though those had been fucking pretty flames. The safe exit door of the bar he's just got out is in the alley, back of the building. Doesn't take much to get in.
Takes a long time for the firemen to arrive, though.
"There's your sunrise, fuckers" Frankie thinks as the flames light up the skyline.
286 words, Frankie Roberts, The Indianrunner