I didn’t meet all my goals for last month. It’s been a tough few days. Today’s going to be a very tough day. The next few weeks will be immensely tough. But so it is with the heart. The good news is Keslt can now go play with tatas. The bad news is he doesn’t care.
Mitchell thew up again, off in a dark alley. His stomach loathed him and the world spun violently as if trying to buck him from the ride, but that was okay. Mitch wanted off the ride anyway.
He tipped the brown bag again and the liquids inside rushed to his lips. He wasn’t sure quite was left, but he knew it would get him where he needed to go. His head swam as the new rush struck him. Taking a few steps, he spun in several circles before slamming face first into a brick wall. He tumbled to his butt, doing all he could to keep the bottle facing up.
It was futile, though. His coordination was off and instead of letting the mouth of the bottle face the heavens, it tilted towards hell, giving the dirt a drink. It wasn’t much, but enough to get Mitch to curse. He pondered the puddle for a time, of lapping at it. It wasn’t that he was in dire straights and this was the last bottle until he could beg another. It was Friday night and he had a good job during the week. Just during the weekend he didn’t look anything close to reputable.
But in the end, it was mud and the mud would not taste good or be sanitary. He could always buy a new elixir for his woes.
Crossing his legs, Mitch smiled and took another swig, a swig so deep and finally fell onto his back. Looking to his side he could see that little collection of booze in the dirt, still soaking into the earth. A cat mewed close by and came up to the liquid, lapping at it. Mitch laughed and slurred, “Long’s it’s nah waistin.” The cat went over to Mitch after a few laps and nuzzled against his face. The man started to cry.
“You know, think you’re friend. I’m Mitch.” The cat gave a low call, leaning heavily on the man. “Funny the one ya want, always walks out. Always someone else. But it’s you’re damned fault.” He laughed, “But at’s okay. I’m awesome.” The cat licked his lips and he could taste mud and liquor. “Oh silly. Lips saved fer someone. You’re are saved,” he started laughing as he thought of the punchline, trying to say it. “You’re lips saved for your butt!” He burst out laughing even louder, rolling from side to side. Then a shiver settled into his bones.
“Too much.” He stopped laughing and looked at the heavily polluted sky. There were no stars, only the pink and purple haze. “Drank too much. Hate.” He yawned. “Sleep. Where do I go?” He tried to move, but his body was heavy. “I’ve nowhere, cat. You know at? Nowhere. Door open, but can’t walk in. Not yet. Waiting. But it’s closed now. Not for good?” It was a question, asking the cat as if the feline could shed some light on the situation. Perhaps the cat did, as again it let out a meow.
“True.” He took another swig as the world started to slow. He didn’t want off the ride. “Very true. I’ll call you Friskers.” He laughed again and the cat took a step away, one paw raised in the air as if to bat at the strange man, but then Mitch settled and the cat went back to warming his face with its head. “Friskers, come home with me. I think I have a home. Definitely no company. Yep. That’s what we’re doing.”
He stood up, taking the cat in hand. There was no protest from the animal. Mitch took one step and fell face first into the mud. There was no laughter. There were no curses. He simply tilted his head and started snowing, waking up the next morning in a ditch, Friskers gone.
Fantasy Writer and Cartographer
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I have people to kill, lives to ruin, plagues to bring, and worlds to destroy. I am not the Angel of Death. I'm a fiction writer.