Chuck’s challenge for the week: Cocktails.
Maybe I was a bit myopic. I tried to think of ways to make the title “Gin Rickey” not have anything to do with liquor and came up dry (haw) so I decided to lean into the skid and embrace my tunnel vision. I even ended up getting a bit of Father’s Day magic into this one, though it wasn’t even almost my intention at first.
These characters are a lot saltier than my usual fare, which was kinda fun to write. Here are 1489 words of boozed-up brouhaha.
He clumps to the bar and dumps himself onto the stool, two hundred pounds of lean beef. He plunks a heavy briefcase to the floor by his seat and thumps his thick, raw-knuckled hands onto the bar top. He doesn’t look up, so his prominent brow — almost like a baseball cap — overshadows most of his face. What I can see is grimy, sweaty. Swollen lip.
“Club soda. Ice.” His voice is as rough and cold as the stones I toss in his glass. Continue reading