The Drunk
by Georgepat
forum: The Drunk
speculative fiction for the internet generation.

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The Drunk


        "What do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do with a drunken sailor earl lie in the morning?"

        That refrain from an old sea chantey was the only part of the song that Ned Tatum remembered from his days in the navy over twenty long years ago and he sang it repeatedly as he drunkenly stumbled down the street towards his private space beneath the overpass a few blocks ahead.

        Life had not been kind to Ned since his wife had left him a few years ago after finally realizing that he loved his bottle much more than he loved her. She had tried in vain to do something to salvage the relationship but all her pleas to him went either unanswered or unheard, as he was constantly drunk or working very hard on becoming drunk.

        Ned's youth had slipped away from him as easily as the upturned bottle of cheap booze that he constantly carried with him flowed down his throat.

        At forty-four, Ned was a shell of his former self and his face bore the character lines of a man forty years his senior. Thin to the point of emaciation and because hygiene wasn't high on his list of priorities, what teeth he had left were rotting in his gums and anyone that he happened to encounter soon moved upwind of him out of fear of being overcome by his stench.

        Ned did have his good points though. He was a true friend to his fellow unwashed and unwanted neighbors that shared the small area that he called home and was always willing to share what little he had with those that had less then he.

        As Ned stumbled down the dark street towards home and the companionship of his peers, he failed to notice the even darker shadow that paced his every move. Had he been more aware of his surroundings and had his ears been attuned to the sounds of the city that were not city sounds, he would have picked up immediately that he was in serious danger and perhaps could have done something about it then.

        That wasn't the case on this particular night though and Ned blindly stumbled his way towards home, constantly singing the redundant lyrics that permeated his alcohol-fogged brain.

        Nature suddenly called and Ned, no longer having the least inhibitions about pissing in public, leaned against the brick wall of an old building along the way and after digging inside his broken zipper and soiled pants, fished his stub of a penis out and let his flow of dank urine splash against the side of the building.

        He leaned his head backwards both from the satisfaction of pissing and nearing the end of the mindless refrain and then with his course voice bouncing off the sides of the nearby buildings, became aware that he was being stalked and drunkenly looked around.

        The darkness became even darker as the entity closed in and surrounded his frail body with a bone chilling cold that he had never felt before nor ever would again. His penis now forgotten and with the last few drops of urine dribbling down the leg of his soiled pants, he shuddered and felt the heavy hands of death on his shoulders.

        His mind, though completely fogged from the effects of alcohol, raced in trying to comprehend what was happening to him and failed miserably.

        He felt the long, ice-cold teeth sink deep into his throat and through his own stench, caught the whiff of an even more horrible, putrid scent that had he lived two more minutes, would have gagged even him.

        His eyes were opened wide and the tendons in his neck were distended as the entity ripped the center of his throat out and spit it unceremoniously on the dirty street below. The bright red spray of blood that blew thickly from the ragged hole in his throat and splashed against the dirty bricks of the old building ran in thick rivulets in front of his dying eyes.

        He heard, rather than felt, the top of his skull being ripped open and his brain being devoured greedily by the dark entity.

        Ned Tatum's last conscious thought before the eternal darkness descended over him like a heavy, warm quilt on a cold winter's night was of his lost wife and the life he had wasted with his continued use of alcohol.

        "Oh God, I fucked up and I'm so very sor…" His brain screamed wordlessly, as his dead body dropped to the ground.

        The entity, satiated from its recent meal and with gobbets of flesh still dropping from its long, sharp teeth, continued down the street but was confused by its sudden inability to move correctly and the impulse to do the unthinkable, to sing.

        "What do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do with a drunken sailor, earl lie in the morning."



copyright 2006 Georgepat.