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The alcoholic sat in his local bar, testing the limits of his liver. It had been a while since he had gotten truly, staggeringly, see-a-penguin-outside drunk. It was high time to have another blackout or three. True, ever since his promotion to left hand, Drunky had ever increasing responsibilities. Luckily, like any high-functioning alcoholic, he knew that rule number one is to always call in sick. Drunky is a pro at arranging for a replacement to do his job for him, and then still getting paid time off for it.
The world spun around him. People seemed to float on the floor in a counter-clockwise direction. Those last two whiskey sours had done the trick that the boilermakers and screwdrivers hadn’t.
You know what’s fuckin’ awesome?
Drunky was no longer sure where anyone was, so the question was aimed nowhere in particular, but spoken loudly enough that someone would surely respond.
It’s fuckin’ awesome the way I can go tearing round town durnk as a skunk and not a sinkle one of all yalls will be able ta stop meh. When were the last time an alchy like me had this much power? I bet it wuddint since back in the old days of Blue Whiskey Van, ole Martin van Buren. Him, er, maybe ole Buchanan. That guy used to grab up ten gallons o’ Wiskey erry Sunday. Back in th’good ole days when distilleries were open to the public, even on Sundays. Especially Sundays. I miss my old Sunday trips to the brewery. Why’d they take those from me? Godless. The lot of them dries, Godless and wicked sinners!
The Puritans had it right. Church every Sunday, because what else are you going to do but nurse your head and pray the big guy will give you the fortitude to do it again that night? That’s a real American tradshun there. Heritage. It goes way back like that. Got to keep our traditions close in these trying times, you hear me?
Nope, no one did. When did I get outside, and where did everyone go? More importantly, where the hell did my wallet go? There was good beer money in that!
Oh you son of a bitch, penguin! You took my wallet!
Adrenaline floods through the sot’s alcohol system as he chases down what appears to be a penguin. Drunky slams into him full-saunder, knocking the giant bird to the ground, flipping him over with a raised fist. He drives fist after fist into his blubbery, rubbery hide. The penguin goes limp, and slowly transforms itself into the shape of a fat old man, apparently fresh from the opera.
Holy sweet Jesus, the penguin can disguise itself as a man!
After a few more strikes, the drunkard starts to compose himself. His wallet was gone, but that wasn’t so much of a problem now. This penguin-man-thing should have plenty, dressed as he is. Success! Rummaging through his pockets reveals tens of thousands in cold, hard cash. Who the fuck carries that much around with him, anyway? Holy shit, is this briefcase full of cash too? JACKPOT! This bird-man-creature was carrying millions!
Jeez pal, it’s definitely not your lucky day. I guess you shouldn’t have used your penguin-powers and penguin-stolen my wallet.
The bloodied, battered, once-refined old man spat up at Drunky. What the fuck are you going on about, you fucking lunatic? Do you have any idea what you’ve just done, by the way? Don’t you know who I am? I’m connected you dumbass. You’ve just signed your own death warrant for attacking me like that, and all your friends are toast too if you don’t give me all of that money back with interest.
Drunky was way, way, past caring. He was at least four beers, a liter of wine, three fingers of whiskey, and a long island ice tea past caring. If there was one thing he cared about at this point, it was that this battered and bloodied bird-brain should pay him proper respects. Drunky’s wallet had been stolen, after all. Who could possibly argue that his response was justified and well-deserved?
Listen up, polar bear food. I’ll tell you what. If you think you’re such hot shit, here’s a gun. Drunky kicks it over to where he thinks the man is laying on the ground. It lands about eight feet wide, and Drunky was only standing four feet away at the time.
I’ve got a spare right here. I bet I can peg both of you two before you can bring me down. I say on three, we just open up on each other.
Was this Drunky’s best idea ever? His worst? Who the fuck ever knows what this dullard is up to, anyway? Drunky was clearly seeing double, and could hardly stand.
You’d better pray you miss, but sure, says the old guy.
The two count to three aloud then fire simultaneously. Just after counting two, Drunky’s balance gives out beneath him, and he ungracefully falls to his side, dodging the man’s round. The man was not so lucky. Drunky fires off two rounds in quick succession. One pegs itself into the wall nowhere near the man. The other lands square between his eyes.
Serves you right, snow bird. Now I’d better go spend all this money I just got! Hell yeah!
Three burly men are drawn to the scene of the killing. Having heard the gunshots, they were concerned that maybe the right hand man of their ragtag organization, Baby Joe, was in trouble. They arrive to find him lying on the streets in a pool of his own blood.
Holy shit, Steve, this dumb bitch shot up Baby Joe! Let’s get him!
Drunky only laughs as they approach. Officer Gutierrez steps forth from around the corner. The alcoholic avenger knows this cop is about as straight as a monkey’s tail, and if these guys’ reaction is any indication, he’s on their payroll. Those fools are helpless.
Guys, I saw the whole thing. Back the fuck off if you expect me to ever give you those choice pickings I snag every day. Everything that happened here was totally consental. This sot was just trying to get his wallet back, and then this dumbass on the ground agreed to a shootout fair and square. You’ve got absolutely nothing to be upset about here.
Steve was obviously furious. What the fuck am I paying you for, officer? You fucking work for me, step aside! He shot up my friend, and I’m not about to let that slide.
But the officer was implacable. Doesn’t matter. Directive 10-289, straight from city hall, and I’m not about to put my own ass on the line for your dumb-assed crusades. You guys wanna protect your friends? Tough shit. I say he deserved it, and that’s what counts. Move along, nothing to see here.
And that was that. Under intense financial pressure from the Police Union, there was nothing that Baby Joe’s friends could do to help him.
Drunky ran off into the night with the briefcase full of money. When he came to from an alcohol-induced stupor three days later, the money was gone and he was in his room. His wallet, which he never recalled retrieving from Baby Joe, was sitting on top of his dresser. Had it been there the whole time? The world will never know.
Wow. The shit that happens when I get my paycheck, he said to himself.
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