First Round
The uneven barstool made my back ache, but I didn't care. I deserved it. Dim, orange light from ancient halogen bulbs soaked the wooden bar. A jukebox steadily croaked tunes in the corner, filling the room with the outdated hits of Garth Brooks and The Beach Boys. "The Flowing Keg" isn't the ideal place to spend a Tuesday night, but liquor may be this murderer's only reprieve. It's been fifteen years since I failed to acquit Juan Valdez, and today was his last day on death row. On paper it wasn't my fault. I did all that I could to win this innocent man his freedom, but a witness charged with perjury doomed the case. That and a failure to corroborate Juan's alibi. The unpleasant result, of course, was that Juan Valdez was sentenced to death on two counts of first degree murder. I winced as I pictured him lying moribund as the executioner's needle glinted in the surgical light. With that horrid image fresh in my mind, I downed my first shot of Jack Daniel's.
Second Round
Ah, that did the trick. Nothing quite takes the edge off like some hard spirits. I felt a shiver run down my spine, though not the usual twitch that my drinking invoked. The cold tingle slid down smoothly, yet sharply, as though my dog greeted me with long untrimmed nails. Chalking it up to a combination of nerves and a cheaply made shirt, I continued to nurse my drink. As I tilted the glass in an attempt to glean the last drops from the bottom, I heard a familiar voice slice through the din of the bar. The local newscaster volubly droned on about traffic and the upcoming school board meeting, each topic more boring than the last. Inevitably he would make his way to tonight's top story, the execution of notorious criminal Juan Valdez. Overwhelmed with a sudden wave of trepidation, I decided to preemptively down another shot.
Third Round
I was spared rekindled compunction when the bartender decided to escort one of my fellow patrons out of the bar, diverting my attention away from the news. When I looked back to the screen, Todd Anderson was covering sports. Looked like the Cubs were in for another losing season. Another shot.
Fourth Round
After three gulps of the devil's brew, I was beginning to feel the toxin take over. The room slows and my muscles relax. Just as I let my guard down, however, I was suckerpunched from across the bar.
"So, did you hear about the Valdez guy?" the bartender asks.
"Mhmm," I mumbled back.
At the mention of that wretched, disheartening name, I was inundated with yet another cool blast of air, and my back was once again wracked by scratches.
"Yes, tell him what you've heard," cajoled a voice, its gentle breath chilling the back of my ear. My head swiveled around to meet the voice's lips, but found nothing.
"Tell him what you did to me," the voice continued.
I acquiesced; not to the voice's command, but to my implicit desire for more spirits.
Round Five
With my countenance hardened by my latest breach of moderation, I was ready to finish my conversation. I cleared my throat, ready to defend my silence, but found my jaw locked in place. Frightened, my eyes darted about to see my assailant, but found nothing. I felt the gentle restriction of my shirt collar grow tighter. Transparent fingers bore into my throat, each fingernail digging deep into my Adam's Apple. My chest burned with lust for air, and my cheeks grew crimson. Then, just as the bartender began to notice my silent discomfort, the fingers released my neck, and I drew in a reviving breath. I frantically searched my neck for marks, finding the impressions left by my spectre's hands.
"Are you alright?" The bartender asked with concern.
"Yes," I replied. "I think I'll have a drink for the road."
Sixth Round
I downed my last shot of the night and stumbled my way towards the cab. With my face unflatteringly pressed against the window, I managed to sleep through the ten minute ride. I paid the cabbie, begging him to keep the change, and cumbersomely made my way inside. Flopping onto my bed, I closed my eyes and started on the long journey to sobriety.
Just before I drifted away, however, something seized my hand. An icy chill ran through my nerves, and I lost control. My body was not my own anymore; I was merely a spectator. My body shook, and rolled its way across the bed towards the nightstand. Fear gripped my soul as the left hand fumbled through drawers, lifting a revolver out of the gloom. I watched in terror as "I" loaded a round into each of the the gun's six chambers, even though for its imminent purpose one bullet would suffice. "I" closed the chamber and pulled the hammer into its upright position, standing like a firing squad ready to execute. Raising the muzzle towards my mouth, I heard that raspy, chilling voice once more. What a shame that my final words should not be my own.
"You've already had five shots tonight; what harm could a sixth do?"