Esky
Flash Fiction
“Fuckin’ pansies,” said the VB longneck in the corner of the esky as the six-pack of Stone & Woods were deposited.
“What was that mate?” said one of the new arrivals.
“You heard me,” it replied, stoically.
“That’s impressive, the dopey cunt can speak,” said one of the Stonies to the others.
“Oh, leave it out fellas,” groaned the four-pack of apple ciders.
“No one’s talking to you, fruit juice,” said the Stonies.
“Christ,” said the VB. “Can’t believe I’m stuck in here with youse artisanal arseholes. Thought this was a fuckin’ party.”
“There’s nothing wrong with not being a mass-produced, low-quality beer,” said the Stonies.
The VB laughed. “You think youse aren’t mass produced? You’re kidding me. Youse gotta be one of the biggest yuppie beers on the east coast.”
The Stonies were silent for a moment, then said, “Well someone had to fill that tap in pubs where they’d grown sick of you, the New and the Draught.”
The esky opened and someone shoved in a few tins of Bundaberg and Coke.
“Evening fellas,” they said.
“Oh boy, speaking of mass-produced,” said the Stonies, emboldened.
