CHAPTER 5: AN ASSHOLE WHEN I DRINK
"Mickey, gimme three fingers of Lingonberry Schnapps, a Tequila Simpson, and eight buckwheat pancakes."
I added another glassful to the pool of vomit that all but obscured a basket of stale pretzels gathering moss in front of the only barkeep in town who'd still serve me even after my intestines had cut me off.
"Why don't you just go home, Doolan?"
"Why don't you stuff a cork in it, mushmouth?"
"Rayguns and teenagers and mass hallucinations... go sleep it off for Christ sakes!"
That tore it. I'd seen this old fukk Hoist a Tizer on a dehydrated boy-scout, now he wanted me to cool it? I busted a fifth on the bar and brandished it.
"I tell you they disappeared, motherfukker, prepare to die!"
Did I forget to mention that I'm an asshole when I drink? And I always drink alone. With malice pulling my heartstrings and the jagged bottle cocked behind my back, I suddenly felt the ominous sting of VVK regulation handcuffs.
"Field Martian Lucifer Doolan?"
With a quickness the bar was alive with MPs who knew me by reputation, and they weren't taking any chances. Like the Red Army storming a blue heaven they came, and once again my wanting face met another man's ceiling.
"Sir, you'll have to come with us."
"Buy me a drink and I'll come on anybody."
They dragged me kicking and screaming to the door.