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Fiction

A Special Occasion

“Hey, asshole!” I never had a glass skull yell at me before. Yet there it was, atop the shelf in my mudroom, taunting me as I walked past. “Haven’t you waited long enough?” it asked.

“You sound like Dan Aykroyd,” I replied.

“Take me down,” it insisted. “Pull my stopper and try me already. The world is ending. What are you waiting for?”

I nodded, “You have been hanging around quite a while — the bottle to be opened on a special occasion.”

“There’s no such thing,” it argued.

“It’s not the Apocalypse.”

“Yeah…”

I acquired that bottle of Crystal Head Vodka from an estate more than a decade ago — a relic from my auctioneering days when I sold dead people’s stuff to people who are going to die.

“Glup! Glup! Glup!” the bottle snorted as I poured a couple of shots worth into a tumbler. “Cheers, dummy!”

“Cheers,” I echoed and drank.

It stared at me.

“Disappointing,” I sighed.

“Anticipation is the philosophy of fools,” the bottle said.

“I thought that was hindsight.”

“Either way,” the bottle said, “you’re not acknowledging the present.”

“Either way,” I replaced the stopper, “I’m a hypocrite.”

“Part of the human condition,” it said. “By the way, what’s so disappointing about me?”

“You taste very much like rubbing alcohol,” I answered.

“Then put me back on the shelf,” the bottle said. “You might need me when you have to start making homemade hand sanitizer.”

“Now who’s the hypocrite?”

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