Take Me to Your Liquor
by John Bukowski
Bart pounded the bar and shook his head. He’d put up with a lot from his friend, but this was the limit.
“I’m just saying,” Pete said, “it’s never happened, so we don’t know. You’re entitled to your opinion, and I’m entitled to mine.”
“I’m beginning to think the monotony of the assembly line has monotonized your brain.”
“Pardon me for not having a glamorous job like grocery clerk.”
Bart pointed a cautionary finger. “That’s senior food service specialist.” He tapped the oak bar for emphasis.
Sam the bartender asked, “You guys want another round?”
Bart nodded and waved toward the nearly empty glasses. “Let me get this straight. Batman could take down Superman. Superman?”
Pete Wysocki finished the dregs in his mug, then burped. “I’m saying that they never fought, so we don’t know.”
“He’s frickin’ Superman, for God’s sake.”
Bart wanted to say more, but his mouth went as numb as a drilled tooth. He wanted to reach up, but his hand wouldn’t move. He thought he was having a stroke but, if so, Pete was, too. Bart saw a blank stare in his friend’s glazed eyes, drool and a few drops of Miller dripping from the corner of Pete’s mouth.
There was no sound. The low-level drone of the ballgame and the occasional traffic beeps were gone, as if he’d been suddenly sealed in plastic. The air felt thick as pudding and smelled like the metallic tang that comes after a lightning strike. Something was happening.
First his glass and then Pete’s began to shake, skittering across the bar like waterbugs. Pete’s mug skidded off the side, but there was no clatter of breaking glass. The bottles lined neatly behind the bar joined the party, vaulting up and down like boozy Rockettes. A fifth of Heaven Hill headed to the floor, followed by some vodka. There was no crash, just that same metallic tang. Bart’s ears hurt with the sharp, needling ache he sometime got on planes.
Just when Bart thought his eardrums would burst, reality came back with a rifle-shot bang. The mirror over the bar cracked, sending a glass shard into the oaken surface inches from his hand. The ozone smell got stronger, and a flashbulb pop caused his eyes to snap shut.
The electric stink departed, replaced by the familiar smell of old tobacco smoke and booze. Background noise returned, with the announcer saying that the score was three to two in favor of the Reds. Then a new voice added, “Sorry about that.”
Bart could move again. He opened his eyes and turned to see a funny little man dressed in what looked like a leisure suit made of quilted toilet paper. He seemed oddly human, although his askew hair was a strange shade of red and his face was glossy pale, with near-translucent skin stretched taut around two eyes. “That’s the inducer,” he added, holding up a small silver box. “Always assures a grand entrance.” His smile was pleasant, disarming.
“I’m Hamilcar Troska,” he continued. “But you can call me Ham.” Sniffing the air, Ham touched the little box and squinted in thought. “Simple ethanol molecules with traces of yeast, fusil oil, and various congeners. Fascinating.”
Bart found he could speak, although his jaw muscle ached, as if he’d endured a lengthy root canal. “Where did you come from?”
Ham chuckled. “Not here.” He pointed at the ceiling, twirling his finger before jabbing at the overhead light. “The third planet circling a star right about there. You wouldn’t know it. But anyhow, we’ve learned to utilize inverse-warp, matter-energy induction for not-quite instantaneous travel.” Tapping the box, he said, “This last jaunt was 4.3 milliseconds.”
Bart, Pete, and Sam stared as the little man looked curiously around the tavern, grinning ear to ear. Two weeks earlier, in this very bar, Bart and Sam had directed their considerable alcoholic and cinematic experience to this very problem: What to do when an alien comes calling? Bart had opted for kicking alien butt. Pete had voted for the gentler and more cerebral approach of Close Encounters. But when barroom fantasy became reality, all reacted to the terrifying truth by simultaneously asking, “Buy you a drink?”
Ham seemed confused, but then his becoming grin broadened. Pointing to a bottle, he said, “You mean the alcohol?”
Bart nodded.
“That is a very kind and attractive offer, but I’m not supposed to. It might interfere with my medication. Although I haven’t had any today, so it might be okay.”
Bart gave Pete a “what-the-hell?” look. Pete stared blankly back. Both men turned to Sam, who shrugged. Then they all stared at the odd little humanoid.
“Are you sick?” Bart asked.
The little man’s grin never wavered. “My doctors would say so, but I feel fine.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Pete asked.
Troska’s face bore down, deep in thought. He punched the little box and muttered, “Usually the translation function is quite good.” Punching the box again, he shook his head. “No, that’s not it.” Another tap and his face brightened. “That’s closer.” A third tap and he said, “Yes, either of those will do.” Looking up amiably, he said, “I am what you would call a psy-cho-path or serial killer. They both seem to apply.” He tapped the box a fourth time and Bart could no longer move, only watch the strange little man with the strange little grin.
Ham reached into the pocket of his paper smock, removing a metal tube about the size of a Chapstick. “Love to keep chatting, but they’re going to find out I escaped, so we have to hurry.”
A menacing light shone from the top of the small metallic tube. Bart could hear it hum and smelled something like burnt wiring.
“Don’t worry, the inducer will keep you immobilized so you won’t hurt yourself struggling. I’m afraid the pain is going to be exquisitely intense. I’ve got just enough time for two of you.”
His disarming smile widened as he went to work.
Copyright © 2023 by John Bukowski
