Fic: Alaskan Oil Spill
I wrote this one for Tria Kane's "Cocktail a Day" project on AO3. It's for movie Don and Timmy, is fewer than 500 words, and I really hate the idea of this cocktail. Sometimes we draw the short straw when it comes to fic. Don is annoyed in this one, so that helps. :)
Don sat at the bar, nursing a craft beer that tasted like pine needles, and tried to decide which he hated more - pretentious clubs or the people who frequented them. He sipped his beer, wishing he was in his own backyard, sprawled on his favorite lawn chair with a nice, cold Budweiser in hand, freshly served by Timmy. In this particular fantasy, Timmy was wearing some very brief shorts and not much else.
He sighed as his mark exited the bathroom, zipping his pants as he staggered back to the bar. Richey Collins clambered aboard his barstool, almost slipping off it, much to the delight of the gorgeous redhead seated next to him.
“Spill me another one, tarbender!” Richey yelled. The woman laughed, then leaned over to kiss Rickey on the cheek.
Don snapped a photo with the tiny spy camera Timmy had bought him for Christmas. Disguised as a pen, the gadget had come in handy a couple of times. Just a few more pictures, Don thought, and I can leave this crap factory.
The bartender poured the drunk another drink, something blue and disgusting, a cocktail Don wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole. Richey would probably be throwing up blue vomit before the hour was out. Don snapped another picture while the guy downed his drink, then another as he planted one on the redhead.
The bartender approached Don. “Can I get you another one?”
Don shook his head. “Don’t you have any real beer in this place?”
“Hipster beers only.”
“Figures.”
The bartender nodded. “I know what you mean. The money’s great, but I wouldn’t drink here on a bet.”
Don nodded in Richey’s direction. “What do you call that concoction you just made?”
“I never heard of it before he came in here. Called it an Alaskan Oil Spill.”
“What’s in it? Not that I want one.”
“Three things I’d never put together in one drink. It’s equal parts Blue Curacao and Rumple Minze. Shake them together with ice, then strain the mess into a shot glass. Then you have to layer Jagermeister on top.”
“Sounds potent.”
“Sounds like shit.”
Don laughed and forced down the rest of his pine-needle beer. He tossed a ten on the bar and told the bartender to keep the change. He had his pictures; now he wanted a decent beer to chase away the nasty taste in his mouth.
On his way out the door, he heard Richey call for more drinks. Don grinned. This time tomorrow, the idiot would be calling a lawyer - if he could pull his head out of the nearest toilet.
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*
Don sat at the bar, nursing a craft beer that tasted like pine needles, and tried to decide which he hated more - pretentious clubs or the people who frequented them. He sipped his beer, wishing he was in his own backyard, sprawled on his favorite lawn chair with a nice, cold Budweiser in hand, freshly served by Timmy. In this particular fantasy, Timmy was wearing some very brief shorts and not much else.
He sighed as his mark exited the bathroom, zipping his pants as he staggered back to the bar. Richey Collins clambered aboard his barstool, almost slipping off it, much to the delight of the gorgeous redhead seated next to him.
“Spill me another one, tarbender!” Richey yelled. The woman laughed, then leaned over to kiss Rickey on the cheek.
Don snapped a photo with the tiny spy camera Timmy had bought him for Christmas. Disguised as a pen, the gadget had come in handy a couple of times. Just a few more pictures, Don thought, and I can leave this crap factory.
The bartender poured the drunk another drink, something blue and disgusting, a cocktail Don wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole. Richey would probably be throwing up blue vomit before the hour was out. Don snapped another picture while the guy downed his drink, then another as he planted one on the redhead.
The bartender approached Don. “Can I get you another one?”
Don shook his head. “Don’t you have any real beer in this place?”
“Hipster beers only.”
“Figures.”
The bartender nodded. “I know what you mean. The money’s great, but I wouldn’t drink here on a bet.”
Don nodded in Richey’s direction. “What do you call that concoction you just made?”
“I never heard of it before he came in here. Called it an Alaskan Oil Spill.”
“What’s in it? Not that I want one.”
“Three things I’d never put together in one drink. It’s equal parts Blue Curacao and Rumple Minze. Shake them together with ice, then strain the mess into a shot glass. Then you have to layer Jagermeister on top.”
“Sounds potent.”
“Sounds like shit.”
Don laughed and forced down the rest of his pine-needle beer. He tossed a ten on the bar and told the bartender to keep the change. He had his pictures; now he wanted a decent beer to chase away the nasty taste in his mouth.
On his way out the door, he heard Richey call for more drinks. Don grinned. This time tomorrow, the idiot would be calling a lawyer - if he could pull his head out of the nearest toilet.
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*