Saturday, 22 November 2014

Last Shot

The fifth of whiskey was empty. Mikey looked at the bottle despairingly, trying to ignore the reams of paperwork on the desk beneath.

Investment portfolios showing red. Tax bills with steep fines. Court subpoenas.

Half a million down the sinkhole, and worse yet to come.

He stood up and put his coat on. He wanted to go out, but where? Maybe Tossolini’s, but Mikey knew his favourite chef wasn’t working tonight. Dooley’s Bar, then.

Mikey left the building. The walk made his feet ache in protest, but it was only a minute away. He caught his reflection in a window – unshaven, tie loosened, fresh grey streaks running through his cowlick. Such unkemptness would’ve made him an apostate among his fellow Finance District slicksters, but lately he’d been depressed and borderline insomniac, and appearance was the last thing he cared about.

Dooley’s throbbed with conversation. A stumbling drunk almost tackled him at the entrance. Mikey sidestepped and entered. The place was packed with after-hours losers, the air tasting of cigarettes and sweat. He grabbed a stool at the bar.

He said, “Shot of whiskey.”

The shotglass of amber liquid was plonked in front of him.

“Five dollars,” said the bartender, holding out a slim hand. Silver rings glittered on her fingers.

Mikey placed a crumpled note into her hand, noticing the way those delicate feminine fingers curled around the bill.

He looked at her as she worked the register. Long blonde curls, fat lips. Nice ass, thick breasts. He imagined those little fingers curling around his dick.

He smiled at her. But she turned to another customer and didn’t give him a second glance.

Bitch.

There was a time when a bargirl like this would’ve been all over him. He’d just flash a grin and a $100 tip – that would’ve gotten her purring. After, he’d take her out and lube her up with dinner at Tossolini’s or Pierre’s, maybe spill for the best champagne.

Then, it was back to the penthouse, where she would give it up, like they all did. She’d tongue his ass, suck him so deep she’d gag, maybe let herself get hogtied and spanked and cursed for being a dirty whore while he ejaculated in her face. Enough dollars, and she’d do anything. They all would.

Now, he had no chance. Even the penthouse had just been repossessed. Surreal to think this bitch wouldn’t even give him the time of evening anymore. When you couldn’t lavish them with greenbacks, they’d just hiss at you.

For Mikey, that was how it had always been. Rich, he was Prince Charming with a hard-on, and they’d line up to spread for him. Broke, he was a short, ugly, forty-year-old troglodyte. Just another loser. After all, what else could he offer? Money meant sex; without one, hopes for the other were scattered to the wind.

He downed the whiskey.

The bartender said, “Another shot?”

Mikey stared at her cleavage longingly, and said, “Not likely.”

She frowned, then poured him another.

END

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