Whi(shit)sky

During a bout of mental upheaval, Stewart sought solace in the still bleed of whisky. A generous sprinkle to blunt his edge and position his dissonance was all he craved. A tidy little buzz without consequence he reasoned. Or else.

Rushing the liquor cabinet as a shark would to blood, raping hard bottle after hard bottle, stopping short of gnawing the tops off. He needed something chivalrous, not unkind. Remember, he thought, distraction not displacement. Comfort not chaos. Lubricity not belligerence.

Forget about that bottle of Jack Daniels staring at your face, half emptied into rampage the weekend prior. The silence from which still lingers. A cautionary tale. No, not that again.

And don't be fooled by the satanic glee pulsating from the illusionary haven promised by one Carlo Rossi. Dudes a snake. There are reasons that bottle has remained unopened, sentenced deep in the pantry, covered in dust three years thick. Lessons learned. And then...

Stewart remembers the first. Some years ago. In Chicago it was. His virgin shot of Makers. Kentucky straight bourbon. Handmade. Nearly knocked him back to 21. Up until then it was sex on the beach and a stumble in the street. But this time he withstood the turbulence, then adjusted his pride, and ordered another...and another...and another. Until 6 in the morning came to collect dues.

Since then, Makers Mark has been choice. For festival and for situations as this. So good at releasing his tension. Always goes down deliberately and more than respectful the next day.

Stewart took this one straight. A gentle first sip. He always enjoyed that instant relief. It gave pause for perspective before the next built persistence; a third, closure. The rest to good times.

In between each, his smile grazed assurance. What anguish remained methodically turned mute. Stewart realized this empty glass was no different from the ones before. A little goes long he muttered. And then he took a piss. Instant relief. He always enjoyed that.