Teeth and Liquor story bar scene

Teeth and Liquor

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Teeth and Liquor

Teeth and Liquor story bar scene

Teeth and Liquor is a short micro-fiction piece I wrote when I was a senior in college. Enjoy- or not. 

The bartender slid the shot glass across the counter. I caught it with my right hand, its golden liquid spilling over the side for a moment.

“You sure you want to do to that?” She asked me. Her eyes were raised, her mouth scrunched together.

She damned me as I shot the tequila back and turned the glass over. I ordered another one with the beckon of my finger.

“Jesus, Al,” She said pouring it up. “This is your eighth one.”

I gave a grin, my arms on the counter and my back hunched, “Not like I’m driving.” Just flying, I thought as I caught the drink. There’s no rules about drinking and flying.

She mopped up the counter and shook her head, “Who are you meeting here, anyways?”

I took in a breath. I was meeting a reporter for the Chicago Times. He didn’t know what he was getting into, and neither did I.

All I knew is I was tired of living in the shadows. I was tired of lurking around bedrooms and hotels. I was tired of being haunted by my own creation story.

I closed my eyes and jerked my head to the side as another memory assaulted me. This one was full of broken teeth and bloodied mouths. I touched my own and remembered the pain. They had pulled out each of my teeth. They ripped them out and bolted in new ones. Perfect ones.

They’d done it without the numbing. They wanted me to feel the pain my victims felt. The pain of the victims they forced on me.

I downed the shot and asked for another.

No one asked me if I wanted this life. No one asked me, so I was going to tell everyone what they did. I was going to sing like Cupid about the torment I had faced. I was going to sing even louder about what the others had been through.

See, I was the lucky one in all this. I still had a voice. I still had my powers. They hadn’t dried me up like some of them. That didn’t mean they weren’t trying, though.

The door to the bar opened. Sunlight streamed on my face for a moment as a nervous reporter came in. I could see him sweat from where I was. I could smell his nerves and the ten cent cologne he was sporting. 

He fumbled over a chair on his way to me and a patron shouted at him. “Sorry, sorry,” he shook picking up the chair. He found his way to me, “Al? Al Cunner?”

The bartender slid another shot to me. I caught it and stared ahead in silence.

“Al? You had something you wanted to talk about?” He sat down and wobbled in the chair.

I glanced at him. He was wearing a cheap grey suit and a fedora with a feather in it. A large camera hung around his neck as he held a notebook and pencil. He looked like a child sitting there. Maybe he still had some innocence left in him. Maybe then he’d believe me.

I took in a breath and stared ahead again.

It was now or never.

“I’m the tooth fairy,” I shot the tequila back, my wings unfurling from my back.

The reporter face fell open as he looked at my wings, “The-the what? I mean-” He fumbled over a few sentences.

“The tooth fairy,” I stared at him. “Pay close attention.”

“Attention,” He repeated, his eyes wide.

“Yeah,” I turned my head to him and growled. “Attention. Cause I’m only telling this story once.” 

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