The text below is from a novel in progress. First draft so there's still plenty of editing that will need to be done before it's "ready."
“We’ll, I guess this gives me a good excuse to do it now.” Aloysius sat on the couch and dumped the contents of the bag on the couch. He swept the clothes to the floor and plunked the Red on the coffee table. “I’m putting this to bed.”
He snapped open two cans of Red and chugged them down. It wasn’t a bad time either, probably 15 seconds. He snapped the third and looked at Roy.
“After I drink this and nothing happens, I don’t want to hear anything more about me being a superhero or magic potions, or shape-shifting. Okay? Deal?”
Roy nodded his head in agreement. He shifted forward in his seat. “Bottom’s up!”
A soft warmth had started to spread to Aloysius’ extremities. He tipped the can to his lips and eight seconds later it was empty.
Roy sat expectantly. Aloysius felt the alcohol smack into his brain. It was a lot of Red to guzzle at one time. Three cans in less than a minute was enough to inebriate even heavy drinkers.
Something happened.
The belch that boiled from Aloysius’ mouth was something out of legend. Windows rattled, Roy was pushed back in his seat, and a box of Cheerios on the table tipped over and spilled onto the floor.
Showing posts with label novel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novel. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Prologue: The Future
The bar was full of the haze of cigar smoke, the smell of cigar was heavy in the air and accented by stale, spilled beer. The seat on which Aloysius sat was uncomfortable, the padding long squashed flat by an army of drunks before him.
He shifted again, the tenth time in as many minutes. The wait was itself uncomfortable, never mind the seat.
Someone dropped money into an jukebox across the room. Instead of warming to life, lighting up with bent neon tubes, the speakers crackled and hissed, and suddenly Aerosmith’s “Crazy” was ricocheting off the walls. It was earsplitting and it wasn’t making the wait any easier.
Aloysious knew he was in the right spot, could feel it. He'd already downed two Red’s -- Brewed in the Heart of Saskatchewan! the label touted -- and the third sat in front of him. He’d insisted that the bartender just leave it in the can. The “I like it that way,” explanation seemed enough. But Aloysious could tell from the bartender’s expression and sudden silence that he had Aloysious pegged as someone who wanted to get drunk fast and for not much money.
The change from the $10 bill sat in front of Aloysious. Three beers for under $10. That was the magic of Red. It was cheap and loaded with alcohol.
Aloysious glanced over his shoulder. A couple of biker types playing pool, two grizzled ladies of the evening crowded into a booth by the door not saying anything to each other, and a smattering of single guys, empty shot glasses lined up like some kind of glassware firing squad. Aerosmith was still raging. Aloysious looked down at the can then let his eyes slide toward the change.
He didn’t want to to acknowledge that he saw it but he had to admit it. The coins were vibrating, just ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly.
He scratched his beard, extended the scratch to the back of his neck. The coins were very visibly vibrating on the bar.
Whatever was about to happen, the thing he knew was going to happen, the thing that brought him here to this time, this place, this corner of Alberta, was just about to smash through a wall. Or possibly tear off the roof and reach into the bar to snack on a pickled patron.
He lifted the third can of Red to his lips.
He shifted again, the tenth time in as many minutes. The wait was itself uncomfortable, never mind the seat.
Someone dropped money into an jukebox across the room. Instead of warming to life, lighting up with bent neon tubes, the speakers crackled and hissed, and suddenly Aerosmith’s “Crazy” was ricocheting off the walls. It was earsplitting and it wasn’t making the wait any easier.
Aloysious knew he was in the right spot, could feel it. He'd already downed two Red’s -- Brewed in the Heart of Saskatchewan! the label touted -- and the third sat in front of him. He’d insisted that the bartender just leave it in the can. The “I like it that way,” explanation seemed enough. But Aloysious could tell from the bartender’s expression and sudden silence that he had Aloysious pegged as someone who wanted to get drunk fast and for not much money.
The change from the $10 bill sat in front of Aloysious. Three beers for under $10. That was the magic of Red. It was cheap and loaded with alcohol.
Aloysious glanced over his shoulder. A couple of biker types playing pool, two grizzled ladies of the evening crowded into a booth by the door not saying anything to each other, and a smattering of single guys, empty shot glasses lined up like some kind of glassware firing squad. Aerosmith was still raging. Aloysious looked down at the can then let his eyes slide toward the change.
He didn’t want to to acknowledge that he saw it but he had to admit it. The coins were vibrating, just ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly.
He scratched his beard, extended the scratch to the back of his neck. The coins were very visibly vibrating on the bar.
Whatever was about to happen, the thing he knew was going to happen, the thing that brought him here to this time, this place, this corner of Alberta, was just about to smash through a wall. Or possibly tear off the roof and reach into the bar to snack on a pickled patron.
He lifted the third can of Red to his lips.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)