Friday, July 29, 2005


I drink when I get up in the morning.
You’re a damn alcoholic. You’ll die from it.
No, it makes me stronger.
Fool, admit that you have a problem.
It’s makes me stronger than you can even imagine.

I drink when I get up in the morning. Two shots of Jack Daniels followed by my breakfast, which usually consists of bran because it keeps me regular. I follow that with the rest of the JD. I’ll stink of it but never am I drunk. I can operate heavy machinery and I fail every breath analyser but I can recite the alphabet backwards while hoping on one foot.
My nostrils flare when I hear the alarm. I don’t have a steady job so I have spent my morning watching television. It can be frustrating, the wait. One can turn crazy from being alone all day, drinking whiskey, listening to Dr. Phil impart wisdom, but when the siren sounds my body fills with so much testosterone, I’m going bald from it.
I jump from my window, three stories above street level, and land easily, running at full speed. The alarm is from ‘Das Capital Bank’, a new German bank that opened in town last year, offering lower interests on loans than it’s closest rivals, Bank L’Republic. A cop car in front of me flicks on its siren and the red-and-blues and I overtake it with ease, sprinting to the bank.
Outside the bank, four hooded men just bust through the front door brandishing automatic weapons, waving them across the street as a warning to anyone who dared try and stop them. I hide at a corner and watch as the cop car I passed skids up to the front of the bank. The four men open fire, spraying the car with bullets, the wheels exploding and windscreen shattering, two cops with families dieing. The hooded men laugh and wave the stolen money in the air.
They scramble into the black Mercedes that is running in front of the bank as I dart up to them. Only three of the thieves manage to make it into the car when I flip it high into the air, spinning it into a McDonalds. The fourth man leaps back into the bank and immediately takes a hostage.
“Don’t try anything or I’ll fucking kill her.”
He jams the barrel of his weapon into the woman’s cheek and she gives out a muffled scream.
“Pease… pease… on’t... Oi ‘ave chil’ren.”
But the thief drags her back into the shadows of the bank and fires. I use the flash of the weapon to disappear quickly around the side. From inside, I hear the man shouting, “Where did he go?” as I skulk the alley, listening for clue through the wall as to were the scumbag is standing. Carefully I placed my ear to the slimy brick, my breath held so as to not break my own concentration. For three minutes I stood, not moving, waiting for a sign, when the assailant suddenly shifts his left foot back on its heel nervously. With swift determination, I bust through the wall on top of the killer and I pummel his face into the tiled floor.

You’ll never understand what alcohol does for me.
Talk away from me. You’re breathe makes me sick.
I have stopped bullets and leapt buildings.
You have imagined these things. You are never sober.
I have done these things and more.


  1. Lights and music.

  2. bzzz Sin City crackle

    snap Lights and music fzzzt

  3. An alcoholic talking to himself? self-delusional? or a real super-hero?
    I like your turn on this.

  4. Well, you know. I do try to promtoe alcoholism whenever i get the chance.

  5. Christians mostly... despite the blood of God....

  6. Hahaha! true. I'll drink to that.

  7. You're not an alcoholic, you're a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings.

  8. Is that you talking or is it the booze?
    Hur hur hur.

  9. I have it on good authority than Reverend Tim is a good chap... So, don't be too dissapointed.

  10. Well sort of... it was bricktop... or dogchop... one of those guys.... I can never tell them apart.