Short Story - The Devil Wears Whiskey

Piggystardust

Hi Guys,

I used to absolutely love writing and even studied journalism but sadly stopped years ago. I'm not sure why really. Anyway, I had a quiet afternoon in work and wrote this short story. I'd really appreciate feedback, both good (if any!) and bad.

Thanks guys


The Devil Wears Whiskey

I can’t remember exactly when it started or where I was when the idea entered my mind but I can underpin precisely the reason why it happened; boredom. That, or perhaps loneliness, there’s a fine line between the two. You don’t tend to feel lonely whilst being entertained or bored when basking in illustrious presence.

People always bemoan how there are not enough hours in the day, how they struggle to strike equipoise between their social responsibilities and personal dalliances. This has never been a problem for me given that I don’t have any.

Sure, I had to brush my hair in the morning and spray myself down with a shower hose but being a man, I was spared the hindrance of having to apply make-up or place value on my appearance. Working in a dead-end sales job for a fledgling paper merchants also meant it was acceptable to roll into work like a ball of scrunched up toilet paper and nobody batted an eyelid.

I hated the people in my office. Hate is a strong word; despised would be more accurate. They weren’t my greatest fans either which is the same thing when you think about it. It’s hard to like people who you sense don’t like you. All parties feel uncomfortable which leads to mutual resentment and disdain. I only worked there part-time to alleviate my lethargy and impending apathy. I was doing it to be social, trying it on for size but I just didn’t fit in, and we all knew it.

I had no hobbies or interests outside of myself. I only cared about things that affected me directly. I preserved my thoughts for my own needs, not that I had any really. I didn’t care about anybody else. Even women bored me.

Clocking off work is something most people look forward too, they have a gazillion and one things to do (apparently). Some people hit the gym to work on their abs, others flock to the pub to talk about nonsense like the X-factor, while the least fortunate had to pick up their kids from school and hurry home to cook dinner for their ungrateful spouse.

Homes had to be cleaned, dishes had to be washed, fridges had to be defrosted and homework had to be completed but none of this was relevant to me. None of it mattered.

For starters, I hated gyms and had no desire to sculpt my triceps or tone my quads. Sure, I liked a tipple as much as the next guy but having no friends to accompany me to the big house, I preferred to get sozzled in the pleasure of my own company at home. With no wife or kids on board the single train, my cooking consisted of grabbing a bag of chips on my way home. No washing up required.

Speaking of washing up, my house was always immaculate. Not because I was an avid cleaner or earnestly house proud in any way, but because I had a cleaner who came by twice a week and defrosted, descaled and diminished every other domestic encumbrance I was so intensely averse to. My parents had simultaneously been killed in a road accident a year prior and all they had left behind was their only son, c’est moi, and a semi-detached house in a quiet suburban estate in North Dublin. Upon hearing of their death, my first port of call was to the cleaning company, not the funeral parlour. It’s important to have your priorities in order.

So, I needed a hobby, something to preoccupy me and keep me from jumping off the ledge. To quote the genius that is Morrissey, ‘The Devil will find work for idle hands to do’. Well my hands were certainly not tied, in fact the last time I’d seen hands bound in any capacity was on late night cable television. Whilst watching this my hands may have become less idle, but I digress.

It was a lonesome winter evening when art imitated life and as Morrissey predicted, the Devil paid me a visit. Most people fear the infamous red-horned demon but I was so bored that particular night, I would’ve greeted the Grim Reaper with a hand shake and offered him a brandy. In fact, I almost invited him around for a knees up only I didn’t have his number.

So there we were, myself and the Devil sipping Scotch and waxing lyrical about the banalities of modern life and my burgeoning hatred of society. I can hold my own when it comes to drinking but this guy could really put it away. His drinking cap was placed firmly over those protruding horns. I liked him right off the bat though, he reminded me of myself in many ways. He had a certain relatable charm. I knew I needed to up my game though so when he suggested I raid my dad’s old medicine cabinet for some diazepam’s, I didn’t hesitate. I mean, who am I to argue with the Devil, right?

Despite my abhorrence of people in general, no man is an island and I sometimes craved human interaction. This was the reasoning behind my advertising of a room to rent in my house with no intent of ever following it through. I’d spent almost every evening since my parent’s death drunkenly viewing the property to strangers, all of whom were oblivious to the fact that I’d sooner shoot them then share a kitchen with them.

Some evenings I’d pop a few benzo’s with my sherry just to add some sparkle to the experience. I’d stoically wander from room to room explaining all the various features of the light fixtures and how you could dim them for ambience. I’d tell them that the ensuite bathroom had underfloor heating even though it didn’t.

These viewings became a job of sorts, like a child with a paper-round. It didn’t pay well but it got you out of the house. Although, this was more a case that it got me around the house. One evening I even took acid and invited a particularly attractive lady to join me in the boudoir but she politely declined. Still, at least it got me talking to an attractive lady.

Anyway, I was topping up the Devils Scotch and regaling him with stories of my farcical viewing’s when he politely asked me could he interject. He really is a lot more gracious then people give him credit for. He told me that he didn’t mean to insult my intelligence or judgement of character but that all of these people were secretly laughing at me behind my back. He informed me that they were all part of a club, the same club all of my work colleagues were part of. I was a bit taken aback but leaned a little closer as his words intrigued me. They dripped off his tongue like liquid venom.

He knew the ring-leader was on his way over and would be here any minute, he said. I believed him too obviously, him being omnipotent and all. I panicked and asked him what I should do. Leaning back in his reclining chair, he abruptly sat forward. Looking intently over the rim of his tumbler he said the words - follow me. He stood up slowly and led me to the kitchen towards the knife stand. He handed me the biggest, sharpest Stanley blade and stolidly whispered, ‘You know what you have to do’. He was right of course, I did know what I had to do and I relished the thought of doing it. With that, the doorbell rang. My nine o clock viewing was punctual indeed. I looked around the kitchen and the Devil was gone, then everything went black.