Punching The Priest

October 24, 2001

"Do you have Dewars?"

I thumbed his right arm and he looked over to me with a knit brow.

"Uh uh," I said. "Cup of ice."

"Yes we do," the flight attendant answered. He looked at her and then back at me again. I smiled and nodded. He studied my face and turned back to the flight attendant.

"Just a cup of ice, please."

She loudly scooped up some ice with one cup, poured the cubes into another cup and handed it to him. Then she threw the hairy eyeball at me. "And you?"

"Hmmmm....I too would like one of those delicious cups of ice you so gracefully serve up."

She sniffed at me, made another racket and gave me a cup with three ice cubes in it. Grunting, she intentionally bumped my shoulder with her giant rump and pushed her cart farther up the aisle as I allowed some silence to inflate between my neighbor and me.

"OK," he began, "I give up. Why do I have a cup of ice in front of me?"

"I'll show you why." I reached in to the bag at my feet and pulled out a pewter flask. I uncapped it, poured myself a quarter cup and then put a little more than that into his. He just looked at me. I capped the flask, set it on the tray table in front of me and picked up my cup. I held it under my nose for a moment. He made no move toward his cup. He was waiting. With my eyes closed, I took a big swallow and let it slowly ease down my throat. The power, the awesome power of the best.

I opened my eyes to find him still looking at me. He let out a short sigh, lifted his cup and threw back a respectable belt.

"Wow."

"Macallan 18," I said. "Everything else is shit."

The two of us worked on my flask for a while as we talked about why we were going to such a distant location. He was a Beverly Hills accountant named Don who would be meeting up with a client of his in Chiang Mai in a few days. His client was looking for some silk specialists and wanted a number cruncher around to work out the details. It was difficult not to notice Don's fleshy, Charles Laughton type lips as he spoke. They flapped and slapped and made mushy sounds and became even more undisciplined with every sip of the Macallan.

"What about you?" he asked, clicking his cup to indicate he wanted more.

"Government. Checking up on some reports". I uncapped the flask, refreshed his cup and did the same with mine.

"Trouble?"

"Nah, grapevine shit, but needs looking into anyway." I began to feel that warm, giddy, gossipy effect I can always count on with Macallan. "Couple of Indonesian counter revolutionaries posing as vacationing Mongolian tribesmen. Trying to whip up some insurgency to fuck with the stability of the Baht or something or other. Probably just some punks that need to be pulled into an alley and given a good buggering."

Boy, was I getting fired up. Lightheaded enough to let my mouth run but sober enough to keep some continuity in my thoughts. A good place to be.

"Wow. What'll you do when you find 'em?" His eyes were locked on mine. I had him.

I polished off the remainder of my cup and threw some more in. "Well, you know, sometimes ya gotta pop a cap in a guy's ass. It's the only language some of these weasels speak. Had to drop a hippy whale hugger during that Exxon Valdez episode. Sprout-gobblin' pig fucker gave me some lip on an oily beach and I had to dish 'im up a little what-for, if ya catch me. Dropped some powder and ball into his knee caps to afford him a bit of time for reflection."

Ron's eyes were blooding up. "Gee. Must be a tough life," he said.

"Ah, you kiddin' me?" I went on, pouring him some more, plus a nip for the story teller as well. "Got stuck in the Andes mountains for three weeks on a failed drug bust last fall. Supplies ran out the first day and by the second week I ended up eating one of my own testicles. That's hungry, my friend. Had a bad case of 'ghost nut' for months after that, where I kept thinking I could feel it hangin' there. Spooky. I'm tellin' ya. Still check it once in a while to see if another one might have grown in it's place. Got a prescription for 'ball enhancers', but nothing so far. Wanna feel?"

"Pass."

Oh, I was getting juiced now. But my partner had begun to fade. Although Don sported a good sized belly, that extra body weight didn't seem to help him hold his liquor very well. His eyes had lost their focus, his neck muscles were losing their grip and I knew he would be out cold in a few minutes. Fat-lipped lightweight. What a waste of scotch. I stared at him for a minute pondering whether or not I should rob him just to teach him not to accept free drinks from strangers. Fuckin' stupe.

"It's a long flight, boys."

I slowly turned my head to the right. There, in the seat across the aisle from me, sat a middle aged man of the cloth. I couldn't tell which cloth but clearly Christian and probably Catholic, judging by the shoes.

"You say something, Padre?"

He was askin' for it..

Copyright 2001 John Bizarre