These Stories Are Reasonable

Vodka Soda (OneShot)

There are times, when the world is a blur of sounds and colored lights. There are times, when one wonders what exactly he's doing at a bar on a Saturday evening. Though such times are few, Wolf Keum found himself falling exactly onto such. "Rum and Coke," He hummed, as the bartender hovered near him. She knew well what kind of men to dabble with, and which to not. Who would give fine tips, and who would rather be left alone. Such was her job.

His eyes hardly scanned her features, women weren't on his to do list tonight. Neither was blacking out. It was unusual to say the least. More often than not, he found himself here for one reason or the other. Not a single memory creeped in today, forcing him as usual to find himself at the end of a bottle, nor perverted thought had driven him here today.

Instead, he found himself just wanting the taste of alcohol on his tongue. A light buzz in his head.

It was a fine bar, with black leather barstools on tall silver legs. They weren't sticky with spilt drinks or the press of a sweaty and drunk bodies that'd be neglected to be cleaned. Rather, it was neat as it got for places like this, clean, and relatively calm. Seeing as how it was still a bar, he expected any moment now for the calmness to shift to the angry heat of a drunken quarrel. Who knows, maybe he'd get to see a fight tonight? Wolf had never been here before, one might note, as when he wanted to drink, he wanted to get drunk, and this place seemed too nice for the likes of a drunk Wolf Keum. Additionally, you might add that the quality of the neighborhood that the establishment was located in, was far better in quality and safety than most others in the area.

All of this was more than enough encouragement to not drink more than he'd planned.

Clinks of drinks and laughter of friends echoed about from cushioned booths along the walls. Excited cheers of girls, who seemed to be having a birthday outing for their friend, stood out the most. A red head shushed the group, blushing with embarrassment at the noise her friends were making. That's the kind of place it was. The colored lights bathed everything in a unique element, rather than darkness and harsh fluorescents. The blonde bartender placed a glossy, clean, glass filled to the brim in front of him. Ice floated like little islands flooding with caramel colored floodwaters, as boats of lime tried to save the survivors.

He sipped slowly, perhaps it was a sober brain speaking clearly, for the first time in a while, but it tasted better from here than it did back near Ganghak. Or Yeongdeungpo. There was always a chance, that he'd never actually thought about the flavor of alcohol, as he often opted for whatever was strongest and would silence his thoughts the fastest. Rum and Coke was something light, most of it's volume was from ice and coke, that he'd make fun of his lackeys for ordering. Usually, whatever was the cheapest beer was Wolf's decision. Sometimes vodka if he was really upset and wanted a burn, though, that was rare.

The group of boys, maybe early twenties, had wild plans of spending the night renting a karaoke room. No girls. No gimmicks. Just a group of friends doing stupid shit together. Wolf scoffed and smiled at the thought, taking another small sip of his drink. Above the bar, a football game played, red vs. blue. He could've further investigated, looking into mascots and player names, though he didn't care enough. Despite being a young, fit, boy, he'd never cared for football, or basketball. Boxing? Wolf could get behind that.

As a child it'd been his favorite thing to watch on TV. Never Saturday morning cartoons, it was always Saturday evening boxing or wrestling. Wolf would watch from a far, a few feet behind the couch where his father had resided for the rest of the eve and night. Over the back of it, curious and young eyes would watch as opponents battered each other senselessly. There's a beautiful aspect to such a thing isn't there? Painting a picture on the floor of the ring, with scarlet droplets smeared and forced from the shaking body of one who opposed you. Boxing was almost like a dance, and even at the young age of nine he could distinctly remember the thought, It should be to the death.