Gus
Justice RIDES AGAIN!!!
Since there is no posting in prompts, Imma leave this here:
“Dude, I'm telling you! Alcohol doesn't conduct electricity. You'll be fine!”
“But Danny, isn't there water mixed into the alcohol? It's a solution of alcohol and water, right?”
“Nah, not this bottle. Pure Russian vodka right here. C'mon man. You make it through something like that, you gotta celebrate, or you might as well have died. Drink up.”
Lucas stares at the tiny glass of clear liquid. He tilts it slightly until a tiny drop trickles out onto his thumb. He grimaces, expecting the familiar burn of water carrying away the electrons that comprise his skin, but feels nothing.
No, not nothing. It feels... wet? He switches the glass to his other hand and stares dumbly at his thumb. Rubbing his forefinger across the strange glistening patch, he smiles, then laughs.
“This shit is so weird! It's like... I dunno, imagine lighting yourself on fire and then finding out it didn't hurt? There's like... just the hint of a tingle to it?”
“Fine. Call me Mr. Wizard. Now fucking knock it back already!”
His instincts still warn him against this, but he puts the glass to his lips and, as he has seen in movies, tilts his head back fast, letting the vodka slip down his throat. There is a moment when he wonders if there will be any effect at all, then he thinks maybe it is burning him after all. His throat feels tight and hot. But then the heat slides down into his belly and blossoms into a warm and pleasant feeling. He opens his eyes, not realizing he had closed them, and smiles at his friend. He slaps the glass down on the table between them.
“Another!”
“THERE it is!”
After his third he begins to feel giggly. After four he starts to get dizzy and sleepy.
After five... there is a gap.
Lucas awakens face down, feeling uncomfortably hot. His tongue is dry and sandpapery. In fact he feels as if his whole body is dry and sandpapery. He lifts his head and squints at the blazing sun overhead. As a reward his skull squeezes his brain in its merciless vice like grip and he takes it gently in both hands, praying for a quick death. Shading his eyes he looks around. Sand dunes spread before him to the horizon.
“Sac-a-papier!”
“But Danny, isn't there water mixed into the alcohol? It's a solution of alcohol and water, right?”
“Nah, not this bottle. Pure Russian vodka right here. C'mon man. You make it through something like that, you gotta celebrate, or you might as well have died. Drink up.”
Lucas stares at the tiny glass of clear liquid. He tilts it slightly until a tiny drop trickles out onto his thumb. He grimaces, expecting the familiar burn of water carrying away the electrons that comprise his skin, but feels nothing.
No, not nothing. It feels... wet? He switches the glass to his other hand and stares dumbly at his thumb. Rubbing his forefinger across the strange glistening patch, he smiles, then laughs.
“This shit is so weird! It's like... I dunno, imagine lighting yourself on fire and then finding out it didn't hurt? There's like... just the hint of a tingle to it?”
“Fine. Call me Mr. Wizard. Now fucking knock it back already!”
His instincts still warn him against this, but he puts the glass to his lips and, as he has seen in movies, tilts his head back fast, letting the vodka slip down his throat. There is a moment when he wonders if there will be any effect at all, then he thinks maybe it is burning him after all. His throat feels tight and hot. But then the heat slides down into his belly and blossoms into a warm and pleasant feeling. He opens his eyes, not realizing he had closed them, and smiles at his friend. He slaps the glass down on the table between them.
“Another!”
“THERE it is!”
After his third he begins to feel giggly. After four he starts to get dizzy and sleepy.
After five... there is a gap.
Lucas awakens face down, feeling uncomfortably hot. His tongue is dry and sandpapery. In fact he feels as if his whole body is dry and sandpapery. He lifts his head and squints at the blazing sun overhead. As a reward his skull squeezes his brain in its merciless vice like grip and he takes it gently in both hands, praying for a quick death. Shading his eyes he looks around. Sand dunes spread before him to the horizon.
“Sac-a-papier!”
