The Beauty, The Wreck, The Glassing
Short Story
I’ve nicknamed my androgynous-looking drinker ‘Nervous Wreck,’ or ‘The Wreck’ for short, because his fingernails have been chewed down to little more than stubs, and the cuticles peeled back into non-existence.
The Wreck is drinking hard. I’ve been lifted six times in the last two minutes; I’m about four more sips away from being dumped unceremoniously back on the bar, only to be washed and racked in the fridge again for the next punter to take a hold of me.
It’s a hassle, the wash cycle. I prefer the slow drinkers. The old codgers that have a solitary sip every five minutes, eyes fixed on some sort of animal being flung around a track on some screen on the wall. Sometimes I get slammed on the table if they choose the correct breathless animal to cross the line first, and stuffed with torn tickets if they don’t.
But The Wreck has yet to look at a screen tonight. His beady, bloodshot eyes flick around from tits to ass to ass to tits, like those that lug me over to the pokie machines, their eyes spinning along with the fruit-laden wheels.
The Wreck’s almost reached the bottom of me. I shall see his thin lips one more time before being engulfed in hot water and steam, and being bathed in icy cold air. Placed side-by-side with the other schooner glasses, back on the merry wheel of piss delivery.
The table is knocked — hard — and I almost topple over. The Wreck catches me. His faced has suddenly turned foul and creased — his mouth moves quickly, spit flying from those thin lips.
A barrage of words fly above me. I have heard a few before: Fuck, shit, prick are all there. I don’t know what they mean but they’re obviously important; they’re the ones often muttered into me before I’m tilted and my contents outpoured.
It’s strange, but I begin to feel comfortable in The Wreck’s grip. He has me tight in his hand now. For the first time, I begin to grasp the idea of loyalty to Him, The Drinker.
The words are a flurry now. Rumbling, furious thunder. The table is knocked again; the remaining liquid inside me trembles and shakes, much like the minute tremors I can feel through The Wreck’s fingers. The stubby, cuticle-less fingers.
A rush runs through my transparent body, and I almost feel like I could jump out of The Wreck’s fingers and throw myself at the other man, whose perfect face has been thrust into view, almost making contact with The Wreck’s. The Beauty is crowding the table, he holds up a finger, he’s pointing at The Wreck, My Wreck. The skin on his neck looks plump and tanned; there’s no hint of a beard. Not a single strand graces that shimmering bronze surface. His Adam’s apple bobs deliciously. His nostrils star down at me, flaring with each word jabbed at The Wreck. The Wreck, My Wreck, he snarls and bites and roars and juts a finger back at The Beauty.
The Wreck and The Beauty, The Beauty and the Wreck.
I feel the tremor in his arm before it happens. In a single, delicious instant, I’m smashed on the sticky wooden table. I shatter with painful glory and now I am sharp and strong and the beer is lost from me and I am plunged into The Beauty’s face and I taste the warm, metallic blood and hear the screams and the roars as this red liquid spills from The Beauty-No-Longer. The Wreck drops me and I fall onto the floor. The blood pours down upon me like summer rain in the beer garden, until the bar erupts and a shoe crashes on top of me and I am shattered into oblivion.
