Chapter 2
It made him hate; it made him money. Booze: the nectar of the gods; the brew of the brouhaha; the language we speak in this part of town. Oh it made him hate and it made him hurt. At times, it made him tremble. It made him remember everything he spent his life trying to forget. To Henry, booze was the backside of a belt. Booze was the mark the belt left. Booze was the sound of his mother weeping two doors down the hall. Booze was the door slamming at 2:15, the stumble up the stairwell, the creaking of the floorboards, and the flicker of the hallway light. Booze was Henry's father.
Henry had never had a drop of liquor. He had been tempted. He'd even considered trying on occasion, but every time he became physically ill or too emotional to hold the bottle. There was no ethical or religious basis behind Henry's lack of thirst. See, Henry was a seriously fucked up individual. The sent of alcohol would shoot sparks at his fuse. It was only a matter of time before it lit. All things considered, Henry made a hell of a cocktail.
Ladies and gentlemen, Henry Newton, the best goddamn bartender I've ever known.