So, it’s been awhile since I’ve posted on here. Why? Because I’ve been crazy busy with my 2014 writing goal of 300,000 words. I have a great head start now (41,000), so I’ll try to keep up with this a little more.
I did another one of Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenges on terrible minds: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2014/01/31/flash-fiction-challenge-a-drink-with-a-story-a-story-with-a-drink/
Basically, the job is to make up an original cocktail, use its name for your story title, and explain how to make it in the story. Mine is called The Caveman
He named his favorite drink ‘The Caveman.’ Did the drink taste good? Not really. Was it hard to make? Yeah, if you include what you had to do in order to get all of the ingredients. Was it worth it? To Thomas, it was.
The contract he pulled that day told him that he had to exchange a full two pounds of the dirty white for a suitcase of cash. How much cash? Thomas never knew, nor did he care. His bosses always kept mum on the subject of money. Perhaps they didn’t trust him as much as it seemed. He neither knew nor cared. The money seemed to be the only thing that mattered to them, but he liked the adrenaline rush.
Like always, he pulled up in his beat-up 2000 Chevy. It didn’t look like much, but he took good care of it. Besides, cops aren’t looking for criminals in old, beat-up trucks for the most part. The new, black Audi parked in front of him had a much better chance of gathering police attention.
When Thomas was pretty sure that he was in the right place, he flashed his headlights. Two men stepped out of the other car immediately.
Here goes nothing, he thought. Thomas checked to make sure the safety to his pistol was off before exiting his truck.
Thomas stepped toward the two men. The man that contracted him out told him that he was making new deals with the Chinese in order to expand his business across the Pacific Ocean. The two men standing in front of Thomas were Asian men, wearing some of the most expensive suits he’d ever seen. He didn’t have much of a taste for fancy clothes, but Thomas knew quality when he saw it.
“Gentleman,” he said. “My boss asked me to make sure you had the right color of money before we get started.”
The two men shot a glance at each other.
One pulled a pistol while the other did the talking. “We want to see what we’re paying for first,” the man said.
Thomas kept a straight face, but the man’s voice made him want to laugh out loud. He compared it to the night before when he called a takeout restaurant, expecting to hear some broken English, but instead he heard a southern voice on the other line.
“We can either sit here and stare at each other, or you could show me the money,” Thomas said.
“Or I can get Shey to shoot you. Your choice.” The man next to him raised his pistol.
Thomas wanted to reach for his, but knew that it wouldn’t do any good. The only way through was to be a hard-ass.
“Yeah, I suppose you could,” Thomas said. “But at the end of the day, you want a constant supply of product. My boss wants a constant supply of money. Sure you could shoot me, but you’ll be dead by sunrise tomorrow, and you know it.”
The man reached over to his partner and pushed the gun toward the ground. “I don’t think we need any trouble. Just show your product and we’ll make the deal.”
“I think not. Besides, I don’t even have the product. It’s yours after all. I just know where it’s at—which is within one hundred feet of here, by the way. You have three options. You can show me the cash, slide it over here—then I’ll tell you where the drugs are. You can shoot me, and look for the drugs yourself. Or, you could drive off without making the deal. You and I both know that the latter two options end in your death. So what’s it going to be?”
The man that did all of the talking to that point seemed to consider it. After a moment, he gestured to his friend, then to the car. The other man walked to the vehicle and brought out the briefcase, unlocking it as he walked. He opened it and placed it on the ground so that Thomas would be able to check it out.
“Walk over here with one of the bills please.”
The man that did the talking nodded. The other did as Thomas asked.
Thomas held the fifty to the light—just long enough to make sure the bill was authentic then nodded to the man he had been speaking with.
“The product is in that trashcan behind your car. Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to take the money into my car while both of you check the product. If it looks good, you get in your car and leave. If not, you flash the lights again, and we’ll do another exchange. You good?”
Neither man answered. They did exactly as asked.
After a three minute inspection, they got into the Audi and sped off.
Thomas let out a sigh of relief when the taillights disappeared into the darkness. He reached into the glove box and pulled out everything that he’d need to make his drink. One ounce of coffee, two ounces of whiskey, a sprinkle of the dirty white, and a shredded twenty dollar bill—ingredients that he gathered to celebrate another successful exchange. He called it called it a caveman because it was everything manly—money, whiskey, hard drugs ad black coffee.
Thomas took a sip of the unimaginably bitter cocktail, grimaced, then drove off into the night.