"Small" writing challenges for my small writing talent. Hotel note pads are the only space allowed. Let's see if I can strip it down and tighten it up to learn something. Improving my skill of weird fiction.
“Your friend will feel some pain all day long, but only if it hurts a whole lot more should he be hittin’ the whiskey, “ Doc Smiths told me. He’s the best doc we ever had in the state, not that we see many. Besides, whiskey fixes everything. The facts of life explain it all; If a man gets shot, he gets shot. If a man has pain, he gets whiskey. It’s as normal a fix to bad things as Sunday church is to a sin. So I left the doc and went to the cat house and found old pal Jimmy Locke sitting outside against the door. I told him the doctor’s prescription. He got shot, got pain, and now got whiskey; or had it. He don’t do shit with church.
He was already drunk with tingly fingertips and the whole deal that comes with a big bottle of liquid drama. It’s a good thing ‘cause the cat house didn’t need a sober guy like him. He’s better to deal with as a harmless and semi-apologetic drunk. There’s a reason nobody tells stories about drunk horse thieves; they can’t climb up on a horse, and if they could, they’d fall off right. Same difference at the cat house.
“Jimmy, what the hell you doin? Doc says the whiskeys for the really bad pain.” I slapped him with my dirty hat, “not old crap from your dad pain, asshole. If you drink that for all the pain, you’ll be drunk for a month.”
“Layaffme, Willy,” he slurred badly, “You . . .donnowha you . . . sayint me.”
His bandages were half soaked with spilled whiskey, the good stuff. 49er’s Chalice Reserve is, well, for Jimmy, it’s the good stuff, but it’s really lamp oil. Strike that; actually lamp oil is better. Jimmy started lighting a cigarette with the bandaged and soaked hand, perilously close to dropping the match all over himself.
“Jimmy, hey don’t smoke that, you’re gonna set your hand on fire like a human torch. Cmon lets get outta here.”
“No! I’m gonna havagud . . .tim, time. Wheres Steffffanie? She needsmy . . . thing. The thing, man.”
“She’s not gonna see you, bud. She told you she ain’t into drunk. Did ya see her sign on the door?”
“Ohhhh, yeah. Whadit say?”
“Yeah, says ‘Ain’t no drunk drunks allowed.’ “
Jimmy craned his neck around to look at the door and saw the sign above his head.
“She meanit? Who the . . . hellgetsa sign like that? ”
“Shell pull a gun on you. Again. C’mon and stand up so we can get out of here.”
He pulled his feet up and held up his hand. I pulled it to pick him up, and he let go, rolling over and throwing up in Stephanie’s potted roses.
“Ohh, better better.”
“Stop wasting the whiskey. You keep that in you. Man, I’m gonna grab your shitty hand now,”
“No man, hell, okay okay.” He said and rolled onto all fours and walked his hands up the porch column until he stood up and took a deep breath.
“Whew, whyd that guy shoost me, man?”
“Well, we kinda stole their horses, so, yeah they’re gonna shoot at us.”
“We ain shootin their horses or nottthhhing. No right to shoot at us like that.”
“You’re stupid, Jimmy. Thank god I’m not much smarter, or we wouldn’t be friends.”
“Hey! We’re stupid. Gotta . . . gettit right. Ever run while you’re drunk?”
“I don’t remember, Why?”
“Legs are, um, like rubber bands, you’ll spin your knees over your ears,” he said as he started wobbling ahead at high speed. He must have drunk aimed himself at every building because he missed all of them and ran more or less directly down the road.
“I’ll race you to the inn; it’s fantastic!”
“Okay, but I’m not drunk.”
And that’s how Jimmy broke his collar bone, the toes of his boots tripping and falling up the steps of the inn, landing head first into the front door.
(Author’s notes) Nov. 15th, 2016: over the wide west, midnight:30.
I was flying home and threw this down before falling asleep against the window seat in row twenty. I’m hammering through NaNoWriMo at the moment and the setting is 1885, alternate past but more of a hard fiction with a fantasy element thrown in. this came out of it, not in that setting but it’s the western area and, well, just some silly stuff. I like writing this way, with weird people bungling through things. To me, it’s quite a bit of fun.