"Hey! Get up!" Groaning, I opened one foggy eye. "What, what?" I mumbled. "You're going to clean this place!" After registering and re-registering that last statement about five times, I threw the sheet back over my head, muttering something about a bad dream. A voice sighed. "C'mon, you're the only one with the ingredients!" I retracted the sheet a few inches, directing one suspicious eye at Dylan.
"What are you talking about?" I questioned in a surprisingly wide-awake voice. "You are going to show your brother how to make something in the kitchen, and considering the only thing you make yourself at home is whiskey, you'll just have to show him how to make that. But, you're the only one with the right ingredients for it, and there is no way I'm letting you invite Arthur over with your place like this." Dylan explained, motioning around the room.
My eyes closed, I sat up and scratched the back of my head, yawning. "Yeah, one problem, I never sai' I' do any of this." "No, but you're going to!" Dylan replied happily. After dragging me out of bed, he attempted putting me to work. Unfortunately, it didn't work too well, considering I fell asleep any chance I got. Looking at the clock, it was about 5 in the morning.
The cleaning, Dylan pretty much did. I can't really recognize the place anymore- it's all... not there. I mean, two hours ago, I could get up out of my room and see the tv remote on top of yesterday's newspaper and a glass of whatever I had yesterday and was going to finish today on the floor, and my darts spread out across the room, though I knew where every one of them was. Now, I had to completely re-find my darts, get a new glass of whatever, and get today's newspaper to read. When it comes to news, I still feel like I'm living in the future.
xxxx
"Dabadabadaba! Noooo," Dylan cried from the living room. I paused. "Then where am I suppose' to put it?" I asked, the package an inch from the surface of the coffee table. "In the drawer." Dylan reminded me. I looked at the cigarettes, confused, as if they would tell me where he was getting this nonsense. "But how am I gonna remember it's there?" I questioned further. Dylan sighed. "Look, if you forget where stuff is, just text me or something." "I'm running out of cre'its." I told him. Dylan waved me off. "You'll get more next week, right? All you need to know is where your kitchen is. I haven't moved anything in there."
I looked to said-kitchen. "But I haven't used the kitchen since the last time you came and cleare' it out. I 'on't know where stuff is still." Dylan covered his face with his hand. "Look, do I seriously need to stay here all day and show you around your own house?" I shrugged. "Consi'ering this is your doing, that woul' be pretty han'y." "Hey, I'm doing you a favor!" I walked over to the living room to put the cigarettes away. "Yeah, one I never aske' for." I responded, closing the drawer and crashing on the couch. Dylan rolled his eyes and continued reading a book.
"Hey, 'o you think I'm even gonna remember this stuff by the time it's good?" I asked curiously. Dylan shrugged. "If you keep it somewhere, probably." He looked over to me. "You know, aren't you supposed to have a ten-pound thing of something?" I blinked. "Yeah, of barley, why?" Dylan looked back at his book. "Do you have ten pounds of barley laying around?" he questioned. I shrugged. "Gee, wish I knew. You're the one who cleare' out the kitchen shoul'n't you be the one to know this stuff?" Dyland rolled his eyes. "C'mon, this was how many years ago? With all the crazy stuff that was in there, I think ten pounds of barley would have gone right over my head."
I sighed. "Anyway, ten poun's is for a whole bunch of the stuff. We can probably 'ivide the entire recipe into fifths and we' be fine." Dylan shrugged, probably only partially listening to me now. Suddenly, he whipped his phone out of nowhere and speed-dialed a number. In moments, he was talking.
"Hello Arthur, would you come to your brother's house today? No, other brother, yes him. Now now. He can show you how to make something out of the kitchen. Hm? Ah yes, let's see, is one hour good for you? Yes, it's early I know, but what we have in mind will take a while to prepare. Whiskey. Yes, which means you can come over again in a few weeks, or he can take care of it himself. That's very good. Thank you." Leaning back in the sofa, I put a hand across my eyes. There was no way out of this mess now.
xxxx
Ding do- pffff... "You still haven't gotten that fixed?" Dylan cried ridiculously, just because it was something to pester me about. "It's a much more relaxing sound... I never like' that last 'ng'." I explained casually. Dylan rolled his eyes and opened the front door to reveal a rather disturbed-looking Arthur. I stood up and held up a hand before Dylan welcomed him in, uttering in advance, "I ha' nothing to 'o with this." Of course, Dylan ignored me and invited Arthur in, even though it's my house. Whatever.
"I'm glad you could come!" Dylan greeted. "It was either this or America coming over..." Arthur muttered. He turned to me. "Whiskey?" I pointed to Dylan. "Says him." Dylan closed the door and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder reassuringly. "It's a Scotch Malt whiskey. We-" "He," I interrupted, and he continued "have everything ready in the kitchen." I'll tell you now, if you're making whiskey, 'everything' is a lot. Hence the marveling-and-slightly-horrified expression pasted on Arthur's face when he saw everything we had to use.
As for the supportive-older-brother, he was already at the open front door, waving good-bye. There goes that route of escape. Awkward moment.
Arthur crossed his arms. "So just what are we supposed to do?" I picked up the barley. "We make whiskey."
xxxx
It was pretty much instruction and silence while I assisted the beginning of the transformation from barley to the malt. An hour into the process, Arthur tapped my shoulder. "Hey Scotland," I turned to him. "What's up?" Arthur looked at his watch. "I'd better leave. America will think I've swallowed a fly." I nodded, then frowned, crossing over to the coffee table, Arthur following, confused. I stared at the blank surface.
"My cigarettes." "Huh?" I pointed an accusing finger at the empty table. "My cigarettes. They're gone. Where are my cigarettes?" I demanded of the glass. Arthur casted a glance around the room. "I don't know..." "AGHHH?" I sprinted back to the kitchen, tearing out every cabinet and scraping the bottom of every hopeless pan. Rushing back to the living room, I shoveled out every nitch and shelf, all to no avail. My precious cancer sticks were gone.
For who knows how long, I scraped out every inch of my house, until a calm hand slipped said-package right in front of me. Grabbing a cigarette desperately out of the plastic wrapping, I plucked my second-coolest lighter of my pocket and flicked the flame on and waved it on the end of the delightful cigarette.
"Check in the drawer, idiot." Yeah. I'll never thank him.
