Drunk (1)

She weaved her way out of the bar.

‘nerve of people’s some children’ she giggled drunkenly. The doofus at the bar really thought she’d go out and suck his dick because he bought her a drink or 4 or 5?

Jeebers! The stink of piss on him was enough to put her off men entirely. Why didn’t guys realize that their dicks smelled like piss factories after a day? Or maybe he was one of those “green” guys who didn’t shower but once a week and used sand to scrub so he didn’t make pollution.

She tried to say it several times.



“p’lshun, ther!” Proof she wasn’t that drunk, she nodded to herself.

She wove her way down the sidewalk, passing alarmingly from one side of the walkway to the other, giggling to herself. Her tall, red, fuck-me shoes had been worn to make Joey regret standing her up in case he’d shown up.

He hadn’t.

Her hips swayed, and she eventually made her way to where a cab was parked at the side of the road. She tugged on the door.

” ‘pen up, fool,” she growled, then giggled.  She pulled again.

“Y’r fuckn door won’ opn,” she sing-songed. There was a sound of locks disengaging and she slid inside.

The car rolled away from the curb as she tried, unsuccessfully, to attach her seat belt. She watched the lights stream past, the crowds of people ebbing and flowing. They stopped at a traffic light, and she looked at the driver in the rearview. Their eyes met and she gave a brief smile, then looked back out the window. She didn’t notice him texting with his left hand before the light turned green, absorbed as she was in a survey of women and their hem lengths.

They drove on when the light changed, and it grew darker, less commercial.  She fell into a light doze, waking as they pulled up at a brownstone house.  She pulled a $20 from her microbag, and opened the door. She fumbled with the handle. There was a click and the door opened. A tall man stood outside, holding open the door, and took her hand to help her rise from the seat.

She didn’t notice the $20 was still in her hand. The doorman took it from her, tucking it back into her purse. He helped her up the steps.  Wait. There weren’t 11 steps up to her house were there? She turned to recount, giggling to herself, but the man steering her pulled her onward.

“sokay,” she smiled up at him blearily, “i’m just a weeee bit drunk. You’re a cutie pie aren’t you. So handsome in your suit. i love a guy in a suit. Joey would tell you i just love a guy, but really you are..”

She would have continued on her rambling talk, but he opened the door and led her into a foyer. No, she was not at her home. The ceilings rose to  a four-pointed arch, with a graceful crystal chandelier spilling drops of light along the white marble floor.  Before she could do more than tilt her head back and stare dizzily at the magnificence, he tugged her on to where one half of a double door was nocked open.

This room was much more opulent than the foyer, but in a very subdued, manly way. The rich burgundy drapes looked like they were silk rather than the more traditional velvet. On the floor, a Turkish rug added warmth and color to what might otherwise have been oppressively dark.


Her eye was keen, though her brain was dulled. The antique desk was certainly 19th century, and perfectly preserved. The man sitting behind the desk was also antique-looking. He was old, wizened, and fussily turned out. His tie was perfect, his white hair was perfectly groomed, and his visage was a bit sobering.

His eyes were stern and dark, his mouth a forbidding slash on his face. She felt herself knocked a bit out of her delicious drunk, and resented him for it.

“W’re you?” she slurred, though she straightened her spine and tried to intimidate. She was after all, a Claridge.

“Your breath smells like the back door of a distillery. It is certainly not at all attractive. The amount of spirits in your system do nothing to enhance your femininity. In point of fact, they do much to detract from the fact that you have a pretty face.”

Why the fucking nerve of the little pompous bastard!

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she leaned forward, a precarious choice given her level of inebriation and the height of her heels. A small drop of spit flew from her mouth and landed on his desk. With a glare of dislike, he pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the smut away. He shook his head, and looked to the footman.

“This one is practically hopeless,” he said.

“She put herself in the car,” Tomas replied, “must’ve been fate. She’s just what Danvers has been looking for.”

“True. But so much work, so little time. Look at her.” He shook his head, tucking the neatly refolded fabric back into his pocket. He stared at her for a long moment, as she looked between he and the footman. She was very confused. What the fuck was going on here?

With a heartfelt sigh, the little man waved his hand in her general direction.

“Fine, fine, we’ll take her, but I’ll not put up with much. While I understand Danvers’ need, this one will require stringent methods to bring her around to tolerable, let alone acceptable to my standards.”

“That’s why you’re the best, boss,” replied Tomas, cheekily.

“Take her upstairs and settle her in. Do medicate her so that we may begin the detoxification immediately. She can sleep some of it off, but I want her cognizant by…”  and he snapped open a fussy pocket watch…”by  11:00 tomorrow morning.”

“Yes Sir!” Tomas replied smartly, and with a little bow, pulled his charge from the room.

“I don’t understand, where are we going?” She tried tugging her arm away from his hand, but his grip was strong. A woman stood in the foyer, holding a silver tray with a syringe upon it.

“Thank you, Madeline.”

Tomas, with great efficiency, took the syringe, and plunged the needle into her arm. It was impossible to break his grip, and before he was even done putting it back on the tray, she felt herself falling into a gray mist.

She never felt him heft her over his shoulder and carry her up the long winding staircase, while Madeline oogled his ass.