Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Weiss Kreuz, or the character used in this story. They belong to the series' creator. This story was written solely for the amusement of those choosing to read it, and no copyright infringement was intended. All original ideas/concepts and the story itself are original (duh) and belong to me. Do not steal. Enjoy.
Binge
His hands shook around the bourbon glass, but he could not feel them. Not his hands, surely no; they never shook. He never shook. The dark liquid—his lovely vice, sweet cancer—sloshed against the side of the glass, but none spilled. Never spilled, no not him, surely no. He raised the glass to his lips, tilted ever-so-slightly to tempt the cool alcohol closer. Bradley was not the kind of man who ever downed a glass all at once, who drank to get drunk. No, surely no. Bradley treated his drinks like fine women; they were seduced, tempted. His sweet bourbon came to his mouth, needed him like a whore. It was the bourbon who needed him, not the other way around. The cold drink slid down his throat, its chill clinging to his tongue and esophagus.
Tired, heavy eyes shifted, moved from their straight ahead fixation. Bradley set the bottle down slowly, carefully. It would not do to have the bottle break. Never, surely no. There was something white and cloudy over his left eye, obscuring his vision. A moment later, a slow and tired blink later, and it was gone. Sleep grime, tired white mucus that the eyes were prone to produce in sickness or when the body had been awake for too long. Ah. There it was again. Well, that will simply not do. Never, surely no.
Never, surely no.
He raised the glass to his lips again, his breath a sweet whisper of nothings to the whore, and she fled to the comfort of his mouth. She was cold, but not him. Bradley was warm, so warm. Like fever in the mouth, that gaping hungry thirsty cavity where she hid—but only for a moment—before crawling down his throat. That bitch, that beautiful sickly whore. He settled into the seat at the desk; for once, his shoulders down and slumped, his back arched in a slouch. He was never one for bad posture. It did ugly things to the spine, that bad posture. It was not like him.
The clock on the desk read three thirty with its cheap red lights, its goddamn digital numbers. What ever happened to the good clock, to roman numerals in gold on black with second hands going tick-tick-tick? He liked that clock, liked to watch that clock tick-tick-tick the hour away. But now he just smiled and drank, drank and was tired and felt old and sickly. The bourbon tasted cold and sweet and like death and cancer in his mouth as the whore raped her way passed his lips and down his throat again. He drank. And drank.
They were always drinking.
Drinking made men real men; sometimes Bradley believed that. Sometimes he knew that it was horseshit that should be left at the races with the horseshit men who gambled their lives away on those filthy fucking animals. Horses. That was the world's trouble. Horses and bourbon and whores. Mankind's greatest creation, greatest downfall. Horses and whores and so much bourbon. Bourbon. The best whore of all, with her charming smiles and sleekly packaged body. She burned the whole way down, that awful wonderful smiling bitch.
He hated it. Hated the taste and the texture and that god awful smell. There was nothing worse than the smell of bourbon. It got stale fast, rotten and decayed in the mouth after only a few moments. That bitch bourbon tasted and smelled like fear and death if he did not keeping drinking, just keeping pouring more and more into his glass. She always raped her way back in, back down down down until it was empty. Until everything was empty. God, he hated that bitch, that dirty worthless filthy whore.
They were all just dirty worthless filthy whores, drinking whores, gambling whores. Smoking whore-dreams on their whore-pipes until the world just crumbled down around them. They were just waiting for the world to crumble down around them, like whores waiting for the big bust. What did they think would come next? That somewhere out there God, in his clean and freshly ironed uniform, would come with sirens blaring, make all the bad drinking men with their horseshit bets and horseshit lies just disappear? Bradley would have laughed at the thought, but did not. There was nothing to laugh about when he drank bourbon. There was never anything to laugh about when he drank bourbon.
Never, surely no.
Who had said that, so many years ago? 'Never, surely no?' Who was the idiot, the bitch, the whore with such a saying? Some woman, of this Bradley was certain. Some woman with long hair and a short work skirt, with bright eyes and a for-a-dollar smile. She had lots of sayings, probably more before the days of horseshit and gambling and too much goddamn bourbon. Probably had sayings that went with smiles before the days of sixteen hour shifts and ten dollar blow jobs. Yes, oh certainly, yes. She must have been quite the lady before the whore-days came and fucked the whole world blind.
He smiled at that, smiled and drank and lost himself in bourbon.