The Smell of Whiskey

Untitled Part 4 (Untitled Part 4)

     In the morning, above all the din and clutter, her voice rose strong and resolute, flitting about with syllables and signage as if the Great One and Three-Quarters had swooped down for a cuppa and crumpet. "Plain it is, for all you to see but, it is not so, my fair brethren. In earnest you sway the temperament of this gang of colleagues, seeking to persuade he who has only tasted the sweet venom offered as a condolence, neither sure of its true nature or design but, licking his chops for more...'Oh god, gimme more'; or the half-wit from Nantucket with a bet yet unplaced nor a shit set as The Two-Bit Gambler herself. Don't be afraid to pony up the cash. Don't put aside all that angst but, parade it, spell it out, pleasure all who are lucky enough with it, for they may be lucky with out it but, that ain't none of your concern." At this, she flung the covers asunder with a flair that spoke of uncumbered forethought and rampant freedom as only could be demonstrated by one who has saw, one who has known... one who has seen, one who has grown.

     Tariq, her bedmate and source of much of what went on in that pretty, little red hair-adorned bonnet of hers, threw his arm back and grasped for a firm edge or frilly pleat or two, hand snapping and chomping for a grip. "Stanchion! For Christ's sake!" And at that he flung around and thrust both steel claws into the brightly coloured linen, heaving with a ho and ho, ho, ho-ing all the way to the bank. "Top shelf yourself, will ya!"

     The climate was now set, the brew aflame. Take the arms and munitions to the front line. Order the quarter horses to embark forth and tell those damned buzzards to get moving! It was to be a besetting upon none of which had been seen for many an age. The playbill read: Harmony, a Source of Denial. Encampments shuttled, a juggernaut swath of men and machines oozing over the countryside and causing the innocent ones to scurry and shriek in terror... for war had come, war... had come... "Don't you stand down me!" She slammed the ace up her sleeve straight down on his noggin and he was blown to smithereenies. "To confiscate is one, quiver because your unfavoured and deemed surplus, take your track record and splatter the vinyl here, there and everywhere under the looming clouds of darker times ahead, all of these don't make you the victor, the celebrant of domination, the glorious wonder of the modern warfare fighting world! Oh, no siree, Mister aka Beelzebub!" She stood, kicked at the tires, took a look under the hood, misunderstood everything he had to say and rushed from the room with the screech of a demon rider echoing through the cold, misty forest.

   As he sat, knees to chin, Tariq pondered, wondering about such things as brevity, North McMurray docklands and saffron as an appendage, or just circumvented fluff when suddenly, she poked her head back in through the door ajar and added, "Door ajar."

     It wasn't plain for anyone to see, for someone to see, for a young man named Tariq to fasten his flippers and plunk himself down into the sea. As she was only too kind to mention, no 'siree' or 'my oh my, dear me', was going to persuade this audience of one to forego the icing on the cake. And by that, he meant pink, decadently sweet and with frilly, lacy things going all up and down, right away south to the patented, leather heels. He snapped the courtesy cord and swung out of bed with the sashay of the esteemed Errol the Barrel Roll Flynn. Parking himself squarely behind the ninety degree angle of the door/wall combination, he swooped down to snatch a few jacks and whistle with pizzazz, "Oh boy, you ain't seen what's coming next!"

     Footsteps... quite and demure. On both sides of the divide, a strained sonar system searched eagerly for any blip, beep, scuffle or sigh, chatter, squeak, bat of an eye, redundant air, a tousle of some hair, wait! Was that? Did some passing fancy just alight upon some pretty, little strands of a rose nature, maybe claret? Her voice came in through the door not ajar with timber of tentative guile and nuance of a gal gone not so wild, "However it may seem, the intent was true and stout, sincere like a cold beer, frothy like your pout." He let it linger, ply some frost but, played the secret strategy remarkably well, despite his usual tendencies. "Oh Korman!" she queries with a heightened splay of all fives. Slowly, the cast of his shadow sunk below the horizon, each member straining with an angst to go. Gently, silently, pushing aside air molecules and little danders of pixie dust past its due date, his arm/hand combination trekked onward, seeking but the grail of a glittery, somewhat smudged, holy door handle. Now her Cheltenham communications mast was scrunched up right against the latex-coated pine; dents and gouges eased a tad with epoxy wood filler. But a whisper, a mere hush of an utterance, "Tarq, is it dark in there? Can you see?" Just keratin tips touching tin or have you what not... surely not brass.  Flesh meets metallic presence, slinky tendrils enclose upon the stark, contrasting handle, the key...