War of Design short #3
Green Beer
The shrill, techno themed ringtone of his cellphone broke through the ether of sleep. Henri raised his head blearily, unsure at first what had woken him. The phone thrilled again that damnable, generic ring. He reached for it, half blind from eye gunk, and stared dumbfounded for a moment at his phone’s keypad. Finally remembering how to work it, he put it to his ear and answered, “Hello,” with the voice of a frog with a five pack a day addiction.
“’Ello Henri,” the cheerful voice of Vivian Valentine responded. “Ya’ want you’re pants back?”
Henri looked down at himself. He was sprawled across the top of his blankets, in Converses, socks, t-shirt baring the words, “French Hussy,” in pink spray paint, his watch, and a bright green codpiece adorned with a four-leaf clover.
“Erm,” he groaned, “yes that would be nice. Why do you have my pants?”
“Ya got pissed on green beer and whisky, remember?”
Henri thought for a moment. “No, no I really don’t. St. Paddy’s day won’t it?”
“Yea, that’s right,” Vivian answered. “You ended up at the Welsh place that fine Russian arse your always followin’ around goes to.”
“Lethe,” Henri answered automatically.
“Right, him, you, my brother, and that poncy bastard my brother’s boning went there ‘cept ‘round two they ran out of beer.”
Henri could believe that. He felt like he’d consumed half the countrie’s alcohol stockade and Lethe, Gotham, and Ezra considered him a light weight in the drinking department. Nevermind that Vivian put them all to shame, that woman had a wooden leg the size of China.
“So I sez we should all go to my gal’s Asimov’s place. You remember that?”
“I don’t remember anything past lunch yesterday,” Henri answered.
“So’s we’s goes to Asi’s and her and her crew, ya’ know Edward, Nicky, Eden, Eden’s bloke, Jamie, Loki and alls thems.”
Henri nodded and regretted doing so as nausea hit him with a sledge hammer.
“Well’s they’s all there with fuck ton others I don’ know is there all getting real hammered when Asi pulls out these two blowup dolls and sez their’s going to be a contest.”
“Oh, dear God, no.”
“Right, right. Well yous get up there and start rolling ‘round with these two big Bristoled sex dolls makin’ all kinds of noises and yous win it.”
Henri waited a beat but Vivian seemed to have finished. “How does this end with you having my pants.”
“Wells you wins right so yous got to get your prize which is that codpiece I suppose your still wearin and you whip off your pants and put it on right there in the middle of the pub.”
Henri let out a strained whimper. “I did?”
“Sures ya did. Gave us all quite an eyeful. That Russian bloke took you home I think. You are home right?”
Henri looked around the room he was in. “Yes,” he answered, “I am home.”
Vivian made a noncommittal noise. “Anyways, I’ve got yer pants when you want ‘em.”
“Thanks Valentine. I’ll get back to you.” He ended the call and stared up at the familiar ceiling. Deciding that his pants could wait he closed his eyes and went back to sleep making a strict promise to himself to never drink beer again. At least not when it’s green.